HIS  DAUGHTER 


OF  CAT.TF.  TJWMRY.  T.OS 


"The  good  father  tells  me  you  are  engaged  to  be  married" 

[Page  301 


HIS  DAUGHTER 


BY 

GOUVERNEUR  MORRIS 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BY 

C.  ALLAN  GILBERT 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW  YORK  :::::::::::::::::::::::  1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

COTTRIGHT.  1918,  BY  THE  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  co. 


HIS  DAUGHTER 


2131598 


HIS  DAUGHTER 


MRS.  GRANDISON  cast  an  eye  upon  the 
mountain  of  hand-luggage  without  which 
she  and  her  daughter  were  unable  to  travel,  and 
abandoned  the  conventions. 

"Dorothy,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  get  hold 
of  that  young  American  and  fasten  to  him  like 
a  leech.  He's  got  a  broad  back  and  only  one 
valise.  Don't  move  from  this  spot." 

She  departed,  bustling  with  energy  and  deter- 
mination, and  in  five  minutes  returned  with  her 
victim. 

But  Frederick  Dayton  did  not  feel  like  a  vic- 
tim. He  felt  as  if  he  had  known  Mrs.  Grandison 
all  his  life  and  had  always  liked  her.  She  was  a 
direct,  unaffected  person,  from  whom  emanated 
an  effect  of  well-being  and  common  sense. 

"Dorothy,"  she  said,  "this  is  Mr.  Dayton. 
I've  explained  to  him  why  we  had  to  discharge 
Ben  Ali,  and  he's  volunteered  to  help  us  get  these 
things  on  the  train." 

"Wasn't  that  nice  of  you!"  said  Dorothy 
3 


His  Daughter 

Grandison,  and  a  sudden  twinkling  in  her  eyes 
was  answered  by  a  sudden  twinkling  in  his.  If 
he  had  spoken  the  thought  with  which  her  ap- 
pearance inspired  him  he  would  have  said:  "What 
a  pretty  kid!" 

Miss  Dorothy  was  between  fifteen  and  sixteen 
years  of  age,  but  sufficiently  cool  and  sophisti- 
cated to  have  passed  for  twenty.  Frederick  Day- 
ton was  twenty-four,  and  although  he  had  grad- 
uated from  Harvard,  distinguished  himself  in 
post-graduate  courses  in  botany  and  landscape- 
gardening,  and  had  all  but  completed  a  voyage 
round  the  world,  there  remained  to  him  a  cer- 
|tain  schoolboyishness  of  manner  and  vision.  He 
fought  against  these  things,  not  realizing  that 
they  were  attractive  qualities. 

"The  question  is,"  said  Mrs.  Grandison,  "what 
are  we  going  to  do  for  Mr.  Dayton  in  order  to 
show  our  gratitude  ?" 

"I  think  we  had  better  ask  him  to  share  our 
compartment,"  said  Dorothy,  "and  to  make 
himself  at  home  in  the  lunch-basket." 

"Gratitude  can  be  overdone,"  said  Dayton. 

"What  does  he  mean  by  that?"  asked  Mrs. 
Grandison. 

"He  says  he's  afraid  we  don't  allow  smoking 
in  our  compartment,"  said  Dorothy. 

4 


His  Daughter 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Grandison,  "if  he  must 
smoke  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  kept  him  company. 
I  suppose  you'll  stop  at  Shepheard's  ?" 

"I'd  hate  to  go  home  and  tell  my  friends  that 
I'd  stopped  anywhere  else,"  said  Dorothy.  "They 
say  that  if  you  sit  long  enough  on  the  terrace  at 
Shepheard's  sooner  or  later  you'll  have  seen 
everybody  in  the  world  that's  worth  seeing.  But 
maybe  you've  often  been  to  Cairo  ?" 

"No,"  said  Dayton,  "I'm  seeing  everything 
for  the  first  time.  And  there  won't  be  a  second 
for  years  and  years.  When  I  get  home  I've  got 
to  settle  down  to  hard  work." 

Mrs.  Grandison  looked  him  over  shrewdly. 

"You  have  the  professional  head,"  she  said, 
"rather  than  the  business  man's.  Now  tell  me 
that  I'm  wrong." 

"I've  studied  to  be  a  landscape-gardener,"  said 
Dayton. 

"Oh,  mamma,"  said  Dorothy,  "why  did  you 
wear  that  hat?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  it  ?" 

"Looks  good  to  me,"  said  Dayton. 

"But  it  can't,"  said  Dorothy.  "It's  got  five 
kinds  of  flowers  on  it  and  no  two  of  them  bloom 
at  the  same  season,  I  know.  We  too  have  a  gar- 
den. Oh,  mamma,  do  let's  make  Mr.  Dayton 

5 


His  Daughter 

come  and  fix  it  for  us.  Let's  make  a  contract 
with  him  right  now,  while  he's  still  cheap." 

"They  are  going  to  open  the  train,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Grandison.  "I  can  carry  this  and  this 
and " 

"Please  don't"  said  Dayton,  "I'll  have  time 
to  make  several  trips.  You  secure  a  compart- 
ment and  defend  it  at  all  costs." 

"I'll  stay  here  and  be  rear-guard,"  said  Doro- 
thy, and  she  cast  a  defiant  and  belligerent  glance 
up  and  down  the  platform. 

"That  kid  ought  not  to  be  so  troublesomely 
pretty,"  thought  Dayton.  "It's  against  the 
law." 

And,  a  parcel  tucked  under  each  arm  and  two 
bags  in  each  hand,  he  followed  Mrs.  Grandison 
to  the  door  of  the  first-class  compartment  which 
she  had  succeeded  in  wrenching  open. 

"I'm  infatuated  with  your  mother,"  said  Day- 
ton. (He  would  have  preferred  to  say:  "I'm 
infatuated  with  you.")  "She's  so  good-looking 
and  such  a  good  sport." 

"You  wouldn't  think  she  was  a  day  over 
thirty,"  said  Dorothy,  "if  she  didn't  fall  asleep 
in  trains  and  other  public  places,  especially  right 
after  luncheon." 

6 


His  Daughter 

The  pair  stole  a  mischievous  glance  toward 
Mrs.  Grandison's  corner  of  the  compartment. 

She  slept  extremely  well.  You  might  have 
thought  that  she  had  just  laid  down  her  book  in 
order  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

"You  might  be  sisters,"  said  Dayton. 

"Sometimes  my  father  pretends  to  get  us 
mixed." 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  him  along?" 

"He  came  as  far  as  Hong  Kong.  Then  he 
got  a  cable  and  had  to  go  back.  Wasn't  it 
rotten  luck  ?  But  he'll  be  in  Paris  waiting  for 
us." 

"Are  there  just  you  three?" 

"I've  got  a  brother  at  Yale.  A  great  big  nice 
brother.  He's  a  junior." 

"Will  you  be  long  in  Paris  ?" 

"I  hope  not.  I'm  just  dying  to  get  home. 
I've  got  two  daisy  ponies  and  I  don't  know  how 
many  wire-haired  fox-terriers." 

"I'm  looking  forward  to  Paris,"  said  Dayton. 
"My  sister  married  a  Frenchman — De  Sejour. 
They  know  everybody  and  entertain  a  lot,  and 
so  I'll  see  Paris  from  the  inside." 

"Wouldn't  you  hate  to  marry  a  foreigner?" 

"My  brother-in-law  is  a  splendid  man,"  said 
Dayton.  "He's  not  a  bit  like  the  comic-paper 

7 


His  Daughter 

Frenchman.  He's  bigger  than  I  am,  and 
blonder." 

"That's  funny.  I  thought  they  were  all  small 
and  dark." 

"I  used  to  think  that.  Then  I  went  to  school 
in  Tours,  and  I  found  out  that  there  are  just  as 
many  kinds  of  Frenchmen  as  there  are  Ameri- 
cans." 

"You  must  speak  wonderful  French." 

"It's  funny,  but  I  don't.  My  sister  and  I  had 
two  years  in  Tours,  and  she  came  through  speak- 
ing the  loveliest  French  you  ever  listened  to. 
But  I  didn't.  I  read  it  as  easily  as  I  do  English, 
but  when  it  comes  to  talking — why,  I  get  the 
sexes  all  mixed  up,  and  you'd  know  I  was  an 
American  a  mile  off.  I  think  languages  come 
harder  to  men  than  to  girls,  don't  you  ?  Of 
course  you  speak  French  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  had  a  Breton  nounou,  and  then  a 
French  governess." 

"  Say  something.     I'd  like  to  hear  your  accent." 

Without  hesitation  and  in  very  pretty  French 
she  repeated  some  verses: 

"C'est  chose  bien  commune 
De  soupirer  pour  une 
Blonde,  chataigne  ou  brune 
Maitresse. 
Lorsque  brune,  chataigne 


His  Daughter 

Ou  blonde,  on  I' a  sans  peine, 
Moi,  j'aime  la  lointaine 
Princesse." 

"But  what  a  lovely  poem!"  he  exclaimed. 
"What  is  it  ?  Tell  me  at  once.  Is  it  out  of  the 
'Princesse  Lointaine'  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"I'll  get  it  at  once  and  read  it.  Do  you  know 
'Cyrano'  by  heart,  too?" 

She  nodded  again,  and  said  "Almost." 

"I  saw  Coquelin  do  it,"  boasted  Dayton. 

"He  must  have  been  a  wonder.  I've  only  read 
it  and  read  it." 

Then  for  a  time  they  looked  out  of  the  windows 
at  the  sand-hills  and  valleys  of  the  desert,  and 
discovered  resemblances  between  certain  hills  and 
certain  animals.  That  one  looked  like  a  yawning 
lion;  that  was  a  camel  lying  down.  But  it  must 
be  confessed  that  Dayton  gave  more  attention  to 
Dorothy  Grandison's  profile  than  to  the  shapes 
and  colors  of  the  sands. 

She  was  so  pretty  and  companionable  and 
American  that  he  wished  she  was  older.  If  she 
had  been  two  or  three  years  older  he  would  have 
enjoyed  starting  a  flirtation  with  her. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  coming  out  next  winter  ?" 
he  said. 

"Not  till  the  year  after.  I'm  not  sixteen  yet." 
9 


His  Daughter 

"Really?" 

"Not  till  next  month." 

"Somehow  you  seem  older  than  that." 

"Well,  I've  played  a  lot  with  older  people.  I 
suppose  that's  why." 

"Will  you  have  a  ball  or  a  tea,  or  a  big  theatre- 
party,  or  what  ?" 

"Why,  I  think  it  will  be  simplest  just  to  begin 
going  to  things.  But  maybe  I  won't  like  parties. 
A  few  people  are  more  fun  than  a  lot.  And  I  like 
being  outdoors  best.  I'm  crazy  to  begin  riding 
again.  I've  only  ridden  twice  since  we  started. 
Twice  in  California  at  Burlingame,  and  of  course 
elephants  in  India,  but  they  don't  count." 

"We  must  have  some  rides  in  Cairo." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  we  could  ?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it." 

"Are  you  good?" 

"Not  very.  It's  like  my  French.  I  can  stick 
on  and  sometimes  get  myself  understood.  The 
fact  is,  I'm  an  awful  duffer  at  things." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"Well,"  said  Dayton,  "live  and  learn." 

"Are  you  a  duffer  at  landscape-gardening, 
too?"  she  asked,  and  at  the  same  time  smiled 
disarmingly. 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  what  I've  got  to  find  out. 
It's  my  last  hope." 

10 


His  Daughter 

"I  like  natural  gardens,"  she  said,  "but  I  hate 
fountains,  and  lop-sided  nymphs,  and  gravel." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Dayton,  "and  such  things  are 
very  hard  to  draw." 

"Of  course  you  have  to  draw,  don't  you?  I 
never  thought  of  that." 

"And  I  don't  draw  well,"  said  Dayton.  "I 
don't  draw  well  enough.  But  I'll  be  in  Paris  all 
spring  and  summer  and  I'm  going  to  work  very, 
very  hard." 

"Draw  something  now." 

"Now  really!" 

"I  showed  off  my  French  for  you,  like  a  little 
man.  Now  you've  got  to  show  off  for  me." 

So,  on  a  leaf  of  his  note-book,  he  drew,  in  spite 
of  the  wriggling  and  jerking  of  the  train,  a  very 
creditable  garden-gate  with  a  long  perspective  of 
shrubs  and  flowers. 

She  said  it  was  a  beautiful  garden  and  that  it 
was  wonderful  of  him  to  be  able  to  draw  like  that, 
and  then  she  came  and  sat  by  him  and  looked 
over  his  shoulder  while  she  made  him  draw  other 
things. 

She  was  no  longer  a  troublesomely  pretty  young 
lady,  not  quite  old  enough  to  be  taken  seriously; 
that  sophistication  acquired  by  travel  and  asso- 
ciating with  older  people  vanished,  and  in  a  twin- 
kling she  became  a  child.  To  amuse  a  child  of 

il 


His  Daughter 

eight  he  would  have  drawn  the  same  comical 
animals  and  told  the  same  legends  about  them. 
In  her  eagerness  to  see  and  to  laugh  she  leaned 
against  his  shoulder,  and  once  her  hair  tickled 
his  neck  so  that  he  gave  a  great  shivery  wriggle 
and  spoiled  a  hippopotamus. 

"How  do  you  expect  me  to  draw,"  he  said, 
"with  you  flopping  all  over  the  place  like  that  ?" 

"'Scuse,"  she  said. 

All  in  a  crum  of  time  they  had  become  inti- 
mate, with  the  beautiful  sexless  intimacy  of  lit- 
tle children.  Nor  upon  the  present  awakening  of 
Mrs.  Grandison  did  they  lose  that  attitude  toward 
each  other. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dayton  himself  was  by  no 
means  grown  up.  At  most  times  he  could  have 
been  readily  absorbed  into  any  childish  game  such 
as  old  maid  or  twenty  questions.  And  toward 
life  itself  he  retained  high  and  romantic  ideals. 
Almost  all  of  his  school  and  college  days  had  been 
passed  in  strict  training  and  self-sacrifice.  To 
play  upon  the  "scrub"  for  four  seasons  and  with- 
stand the  bufferings  of  the  Varsity  is  a  career  lit- 
tle short  of  heroic.  All  his  springs  and  early 
summers  had  been  devoted  to  rowing.  And  it 
was  not  until  his  senior  year  that  he  was  given  a 
seat  in  the  boat  and  won  his  "H"  in  a  beaten 

12 


His  Daughter 

crew.  There  was  a  difference  of  opinion  as  to 
whether  he  should  have  been  tackle  on  the  Var- 
sity or  not.  Some  people  felt  that  his  really  fine 
defensive  play  might  have  staved  off  the  Yale 
attack  and  led  to  a  Harvard  victory.  But  he 
never  had  his  chance.  And  the  fact  is  of  no 
great  importance.  It  is  important  to  remember 
that  in  many  ways  the  boy  who  devotes  himself 
to  a  college  cause,  which  demands  of  him  self- 
sacrifice  and  early  hours,  develops  slowly.  For 
Dayton  to  have  posed  as  a  man  who  knew  his 
way  about  would  have  been  sheer  affectation. 
His  body  was  far  more  seasoned  than  his  mind, 
for  it  had  formed  habits.  It  craved  exercise, 
work,  and  water  as  a  drunkard  craves  alcohol. 
It  loathed  the  idea  of  going  soft  and  shapeless. 
It  was  a  splendid,  clean,  pliant  body  in  which  no 
nerve  twitched.  The  position  in  which  he  was 
when  sleep  came  to  him  he  retained  the  whole 
night  through.  If  he  had  tried  to  stay  awake  all 
night  he  would  have  failed,  just  as  a  child  would. 
Though  he  had  sometimes  been  noisy  at  noisy 
dinners  attendant  upon  the  breaking  of  training 
or  the  marriages  of  friends,  he  could  not  imagine 
himself  taking  a  drink  by  himself  and  for  the 
drink's  sake.  And  concerning  women  he  had 
much  of  the  shyness  and  curiosity  of  innocence. 

13 


His  Daughter 

The  attitude  toward  women  of  many  of  the 
men  he  had  talked  with  during  his  trip  round  the 
world  had  opened  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that  he 
himself  was  a  youth  of  either  extremely  good 
morals  or  extremely  cool  temperament.  And  he 
often  wondered  which,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that 
good  morals  are  not  an  inheritance  or  an  accident 
but  an  achievement.  The  man  who  even  partially 
triumphs  over  great  temptations  has  more  moral 
force,  perhaps,  than  the  man  who  has  never  been 
tempted  at  all. 

Such  temptations  as  had  from  time  to  time 
presented  themselves  to  Dayton  he  had  resisted 
almost  automatically.  But  this  did  not  prove 
either  that  he  was  moral  or  sluggish.  It  proved 
only  that  the  particular  temptations  had  neither 
power  to  shake  such  moral  strength  as  he  did 
have  nor  to  rouse  in  him  any  impulses  which 
were  in  the  least  difficult  to  school.  The  man 
who  for  the  sake  of  appearances  refuses  the  last 
slice  of  bacon  might  very  well  under  other  cir- 
cumstances fight  his  best  friend  for  the  carcass 
of  a  rat. 

For  men  who  did  not  resist  their  temptations 
he  had  the  hearty  contempt  of  extreme  youth. 
In  other  words,  he  made  no  allowance  for  the 
strength  of  their  particular  temptations.  But 
he  had  the  sense  and  good  manners  to  keep  his 


His  Daughter 

contempts  and  his  judgments  to  himself.  Nor 
could  he  have  been  brought  to  pose  as  a  particu- 
larly virtuous  young  man.  .  .  . 

"Do  smoke,"  said  Mrs.  Grandison,  waking  up. 

"  Not  now,"  exclaimed  Dorothy.  "  He's  drawing 
pictures.  But  of  course  if  you  really  want  to." 

"I  don't.  As  a  smoker  I've  never  been  con- 
firmed." 

Dorothy  giggled. 

"Once  when  I  was  a  little  boy  there  was  a  ter- 
rible smoking  scandal  back  of  our  barn.  Up  to 
that  time  I'd  never  smoked  in  my  life.  It  was 
the  other  boys.  But  when  my  father  asked  me, 
I  was  ashamed  to  confess  that  I'd  never  smoked. 
Isn't  that  a  funny  idea  ?  I  suppose  I  thought  it 
was  an  unmanly  record,  and  I'm  afraid  I  lied  to 
him.  Then  the  lie  got  on  my  nerves,  and  the 
only  way  I  could  think  of  to  right  it  was  to  smoke. 
Aren't  kids  great  ?  So  I  stole  one  of  my  father's 
cigars.  .  .  ." 

"And  it  made  you  ill  ?" 

"I  didn't  like  it,  but  it  "didn't  make  me  ill. 
And  then  my  aunt  promised  me  a  thousand  dol- 
lars if  I  wouldn't  smoke  till  I  was  twenty-one. 
And  I  didn't.  But  that  was  easy,  because  most 
of  the  time  I  was  in  training  trying  to  get  on  the 
school  teams  and  then  the  college  teams." 

"And  of  course  you  did." 
IS 


His  Daughter 

"I  made  the  crew  at  the  last  time  of  asking," 
said  Dayton.  "I  just  squeezed  in.  And  we  were 
beaten  by  Yale,  and  I  suppose  you  are  glad  ?" 

"Of  course  I'm  glad,"  said  Dorothy.  "Did 
you  cry  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dayton,  "we  all  cried  and  col- 
lapsed. The  losing  crew  always  has  to.  It's  the 
rule.  But  the  other  fellows,  who'd  worked  just 
as  hard  as  we  had,  and  who  weren't  a  bit  better 
conditioned,  turned  right  round  and  rowed  back 
up  the  river.  Insulting,  wasn't  it  ?  If  we'd  won 
we  would  have  done  the  same  thing  to  them." 

Dorothy  withdrew  to  a  little  distance  and  re- 
garded Dayton  critically.  He  looked  very  blond 
and  strong  and  placid.  It  was  difficult  to  picture 
him  as  distressed  and  unhappy. 

"I  can't  imagine  what  you'd  be  like,  crying," 
announced  Dorothy.  "I  don't  know  whether  it 
would  be  funny  or  horrid.  Mamma,  did  you  ever 
see  a  man  cry  ?" 

But  Mrs.  Grandison  would  not  commit  herself. 
Either  she  [had  never  seen  a  man  cry  or  did  not 
wish  to  appear  uninitiated  in  the  eyes  of  the 
young  people. 

They  had  not  been  many  days  in  Cairo  before 
it  dawned  upon  Dayton  that  he  was  filling  Doro- 
thy Grandison's  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  every- 

16 


His  Daughter 

thing  else.  She  was  terribly  "mashed"  on  him, 
as  we  Americans  say  of  a  passion  which  we  do 
not  wish  to  dignify  by  the  name  of  love.  And  in 
every  possible  way  she  revealed  her  state  of  heart 
to  him  and  to  everybody  else.  Mrs.  Grandison 
joked  with  him  about  his  conquest,  and  besought 
him  not  to  allow  any  chivalrous  consideration  for 
the  child's  infatuation  to  influence  any  of  his 
comings  or  goings.  But  that  infatuation  of  hers 
was  very  easily  satisfied,  since  the  mere  fact  of 
being  his  companion  upon  an  excursion  of  some 
sort  or  other  made  her  ecstatically  happy.  She 
loved  the  sun;  she  did  not  at  this  time  wish  that 
it  could  love  her  back.  It  was  enough  that  it 
should  shine  upon  her  from  the  heavens,  and  that 
there  should  come  between  them  no  cloud.  If 
she  had  been  a  little  boy  instead  of  a  little  girl 
she  might  have  adored  him  in  much  the  same  way. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  more  just  to  describe  her  as 
not  in  a  state  of  love  but  of  hero-worship.  She 
imagined  situations  in  which  she  laid  down  her 
life  for  him.  Some  of  them,  which  had  touches 
of  true  dramatic  value,  became  very  real  to  her, 
and  she  lived  them  over  and  over  again. 

Upon  Dayton  the  affair  had  an  outer  and  an 
inner  effect.  He  managed  outwardly  to  appear 
older,  graver,  and  more  experienced.  But  in- 
wardly he  lapsed  from  the  middle  twenties  to 

17 


His  Daughter 

the  late  teens.  He  built  very  romantic  edifices 
upon  the  foundation  of  her  attachment.  He  took 
it  seriously.  It  was  not  a  mere  schoolgirl  mash, 
but  love.  It  had  about  it  a  quality  of  perma- 
nency. Years  might  pass  and  find  her  still  the 
same. 

If  she  had  only  been  a  few  years  older!  She 
would  be  just  the  kind  of  girl  he  would  fall  in  love 
with  if  he  ever  did  fall  in  love  with  anybody.  She 
was  keen,  and  pretty,  and  unspoiled,  and  well- 
born. They  had  tastes  in  common.  If  only  she 
had  been  born  even  two  years  earlier ! 

In  his  open  attitude  to  her  he  was  most  circum- 
spect and  older-brotherly.  Nobody  could  have 
guessed  that  in  his  secret  heart  the  romance  was 
a  matter  of  real  moment  to  him.  Into  that  secret 
place  he  took  her  often — not  as  she  was,  but  as 
she  would  be  in  a  few  years.  His  pleasantest 
imaginings  had  to  be  based  upon  that  hypothesis, 
and  this — that  he  was  also  in  love  with  her.  But 
the  one  hypothesis  depended  on  the  other.  He 
couldn't  be  in  love  with  a  girl  of  sixteen,  but  with 
the  same  girl  had  she  been  eighteen  he  could  not 
have  helped  being  in  love.  And  for  no  better 
reason  than  this — that  the  one  thing  was  accept- 
ably conventional  and  the  other  wasn't. 

There  were  many  white  days;  those  in  which 
18 


His  Daughter 

Dayton  accompanied  the  Grandisons  on  some  one 
of  Cairo's  thousand  excursions.  Each  of  them 
lived  their  experiences  over  and  over  again,  but 
in  different  ways.  Dorothy  dwelt  upon  them  in 
exact  detail;  revelling  in  memories  of  how  her 
hero  had  looked  and  of  what  he  had  said;  but 
Dayton  relived  them  in  imagination.  In  short, 
he  raised  the  age  of  one  of  his  companions  and 
excluded  the  other.  And  then  he  had  beautiful 
times. 

Twice  he  dreamed  about  her.  In  each  case 
she  was  older  and  loved  him  just  as  much  as 
ever.  In  one  dream  they  swung  in  a  hammock. 
The  ropes  of  the  hammock  were  not  attached  to 
anything,  and  when  they  swung  back — 'way  back 
and  up — they  looked  down  and  could  see,  far 
below  their  feet,  the  full  moon.  But  the  other 
dream  was  not  so  pleasant.  He  was  crying  very 
bitterly  about  something  or  other,  and  she  was 
standing  at  a  window  looking  out  and  consider- 
ing what  she  should  do.  It  was  a  cold  and  cruel 
dream.  Even  the  fact  that  he  had  a  cafe-au-lait 
silk  stocking  tightly  knotted  about  his  head  failed 
to  touch  it  with  humor. 

One  afternoon,  having  ridden  camels  up  from 
the  edge  of  the  desert,  they  all  three  climbed 
the  Great  Pyramid  of  Cheops.  But  a  fifth  of 

19 


His  Daughter 

the  way  up  Mrs.  Grandison's  legs  began  to  give 
out  and  she  wisely  decided  to  attempt  no 
more. 

From  the  Arabs  who  accompanied  them  the 
young  people  refused  all  offers  of  assistance.  It 
was  a  point  of  pride  with  them.  They  wanted 
to  tell  their  friends  at  home  that  they  had  sur- 
mounted all  the  boasted  difficulties  of  the  ascent 
without  aid  of  any  kind. 

The  way  up  the  Great  Pyramid,  divided  into 
its  component  parts,  is  simplicity  itself.  A  well- 
practised  Arab  goes  up  as  easily  and  regularly 
as  a  housemaid  goes  up  a  flight  of  stairs. 

And  indeed  the  pyramid,  stripped  of  its  granite 
facing,  is  nothing  but  four  great  flights  of  stairs 
that  narrow  as  they  ascend.  The  individual 
steps,  however,  do  not  follow  the  simple  archi- 
tectural formula  of  seven  inches  by  ten;  some 
of  them  are  ten  inches  broad  and  as  high  as  a 
table.  Some  are  higher,  and  there  are  very  few 
which  may  be  easily  negotiated  by  legs  of  average 
length  and  elasticity.  And  the  upper  muscles 
of  the  thighs  get  a  stretching  which  Nature  did 
not  anticipate.  Not  less  is  the  effect  of  the  Great 
Pyramid  upon  the  spirit-levels  of  the  inner  ear. 
No  precipice,  even  from  the  height  of  a  mile, 

20 


•  His  Daughter 

has  the  dizzying  effect  of  those  interminable 
ranks  of  steps,  seen  from  above. 

A  third  of  the  way  up  they  rested  a  little  and 
looked  down,  and  already  the  effect  of  the  height 
was  troubling. 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  nearly  so  steep,"  said 
Dorothy. 

"It  is  steep,"  said  Dayton.  "If  you  did  fall, 
and  didn't  happen  to  catch  on  that  broad  step 
just  below,  you'd  go  the  whole  way." 

"The  more  I  look  the  more  I  want  to  try.'* 

"Try  what?" 

"Try  if  you  really  would  go  the  whole  way." 

"Then  don't  look,"  said  Dayton  firmly; 
"you're  showing  symptoms  of  precipicitis." 

"Do  your  legs  feel  funny?" 

"How  do  you  mean — funny  ?" 

"Very  long  and  woggly,  like  that  baby  camel's 
we  saw.  Mine  do." 

"They  ought  to,"  said  Dayton;  "they've  been 
pulled  by  all  nations.  But  my  heart's  going 
some.  It  could  drive  a  nail  with  one  blow." 

The  climb  had  ceased  to  be  amusing.  It  was 
hard  work  and  hot  work.  Dayton,  a  little  soft 
with  travel,  was  drenched. 

The  Arabs  had  not  turned  a  hair.  They 
breathed  like  sleeping  children  and  chatted  in 

21 


His  Daughter 

Arabic,  a  language  which  Dayton  and  Dorothy 
Grandison  had  the  good  fortune  not  to  under- 
stand. It  would  not  have  pleased  them  to  hear 
that  they  were  descended  from  pigs,  and  that 
the  near  sight  of  them  was  enough  to  make  a 
blind  camel  sick  at  all  of  his  many  stomachs. 

When  at  last  they  reached  the  twelve-foot- 
square  platform  which  is  the  top  of  the  pyramid, 
Dorothy  flung  herself  face  down  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  arms.  Dayton  too  flung  himself  down 
and  for  a  long  time  panted  like  a  dog.  And  he 
smiled  a  little  at  the  wonder  of  being  so  com- 
pletely done  up.  He  had  fancied  himself  a  strong 
man  in  the  pink  of  condition,  only  to  discover 
that  he  had  certain  muscles  for  which  until  that 
day  he  had  never  found  any  use. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  great  difficulty.  The 
muscles  of  his  thighs  were  so  stretched  that  he 
could  hardly  control  his  legs.  Thoughts  of  hav- 
ing to  descend  the  pyramid  disturbed  him  ex- 
tremely. He  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  platform, 
looked  over,  and  turned  away  quickly. 

By  this  time  Dorothy  had  gathered  herself 
into  a  sitting  position.  She  was  dead  white,  with 
a  spot  of  vermilion  in  each  cheek. 

"Help  me  up,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  see  if  I 
can  stand."  He  had  to  support  her. 

22 


His  Daughter 

"They  used  to  have  knee-joints  and  ankle- 
joints,"  she  said;  "now  they  are  all  joints  like 
snakes." 

"They've  got  nothing  on  mine,"  said  Dayton. 
"Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?" 

"Tell." 

"I  looked  over  the  edge  just  now,  and  I've 
climbed  mountains  and  looked  over  precipices 
and  never  minded  a  bit,  but  I  tell  you  frankly 
that  I  backed  away  just  as  fast  as  I  could.  Want 
to  look  ?  I'll  hold  you." 

He  held  her  by  the  hand,  and  while  she  looked 
down  the  red,  interminable  broken  slope,  he 
looked  up  at  the  sky.  It  seemed  ever  so  much 
nearer  than  the  desert. 

"We'll  tell  people  how  we  climbed  the  pyramid 
boldly  and  without  aid,"  he  said,  "but  we  won't 
tell  them  how  we  got  down.  Personally  I'm 
going  to  shut  my  eyes  tight  and  let  two  of  those 
fellows  do  the  rest." 

But  when  it  came  to  the  point  his  pride  re- 
belled. And  in  after-years  he  looked  back  on 
his  unaided  descent  of  the  Great  Pyramid  as 
his  one  and  only  real  triumph  of  mind  over 
matter. 

But  they  put  off  the  descent  a  long  time,  until 
the  sun  had  sunk  so  low  that  the  shadow  of 

23 


His  Daughter 

Cheops    stretched    across    the   whole    valley   of 
Egypt,  like  a  river  of  darkness. 

Dorothy  Grandison  was  perfectly  happy.  She 
was  with  him.  He  might  joke,  he  might  tease 
her,  he  might  be  serious;  whatever  he  did  was 
perfect.  Life  was  perfect;  she  was  alive;  and 
being  alive  it  was  delightful  to  imagine  deaths 
which  she  died  for  him. 

The  mystery  and  wonder  of  Egypt  did  not 
touch  her.  But  with  Dayton  it  was  different. 
By  no  means  a  churchgoing  or  ritualistic  young 
man,  the  expanse  of  desert  unrolled  beneath  his 
feet,  and  the  silence,  and  the  mystery  of  that 
monument  on  which  they  were  resting  gave  him 
deep  religious  emotions.  He  no  longer  thought: 
"If  she  were  only  a  little  older  what  a  jolly  time 
we  would  be  having!"  He  did  not  think  about 
her  at  all. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  thinking  that  the  shadow  of  Cheops 
was  old  when  the  sun  was  young." 

To  Dorothy  that  seemed  a  wonderful  and 
shivery  thought. 

"And  I  was  thinking  that  thousands  of  people 
who  have  been  dead  for  ages  and  ages  have  sat 
up  here  and  thought  the  same  thing,  and  that 
it  didn't  matter  what  they  thought  or  when  they 
died." 

24 


His  Daughter 

"If  it  didn't  matter  when  people  died,"  said 
Dorothy,  "then  it  wouldn't  matter  what  they 
did  while  they  were  alive,  would  it  ?" 

They  talked  for  some  time  in  this  childish 
strain  and  felt  as  if  they  were  drawing  very  close 
to  great  truths. 

"And  yet,"  said  Dayton,  "what  we  do  must 
matter." 

After  dinner  he  strolled  round  to  the  Sphinx  bar 
with  some  casual  acquaintances,  and  after  some 
music  and  some  Scotch  whiskey  they  yielded 
to  the  seductions  of  a  guide  who  would  not  take 
no  for  an  answer,  piled  into  a  one-horse  victo- 
ria, and  were  given  some  exceedingly  intimate 
glimpses  of  night  life  in  the  native  quarter. 

But  only  Longstreet,  the  Englishman,  ap- 
peared frankly  and  unaffectedly  to  enjoy  the 
experience.  The  others,  as  the  night  grew  old, 
became  more  and  more  solemn  and  depressed. 
To  Longstreet  the  vice  that  was  flaunted  in  their 
faces  seemed  neither  vicious  nor  educational, 
only  funny.  And  it  seemed  also  funny  to  him 
that  he,  a  clean-run,  sleep-loving  Englishman, 
should  spend  a  whole  night  upon  such  sights. 
And  so  he  was  in  high  good  humor  and  laughed 
at  the  slightest  excuse. 

Dayton  envied  Longstreet  secretly.  It  was 
25 


His  Daughter 

impossible  for  him  not  to  take  Cairo's  tender- 
loin very  seriously  indeed,  and  he  resented  this. 
Each  den  that  he  entered  he  entered  with  real 
reluctance,  and  yet  he  found  it  impossible  to 
say,  as  he  wished:  "I've  had  enough  of  this; 
let's  go  home."  For  this  weakness  of  will  he 
tried  to  excuse  himself  and  the  others  with: 
"Every  man  ought  to  see  this  sort  of  thing  once, 
and  know  how  the  submerged  live.  No  man  can 
be  a  force  for  good  unless  he  knows  what  he's 
got  to  fight  against." 

In  an  upper  room,  over  a  black,  shaft-like 
courtyard  that  stank,  musicians  squatting  on 
the  floor  made  a  dance-music  to  which  perhaps 
Cleopatra  had  beaten  time  in  her  day,  and  when 
our  sightseers — the  solemn  ones  and  the  one 
that  laughed — had  been  seated,  an  Arab  girl 
came  before  them  and  danced. 

She  was  very  young.  She  was  no  older  for 
an  Arab  than  Dorothy  Grandison  was  for  an 
American.  Dayton  made  this  comparison  in  his 
mind,  and  at  the  same  time  felt  that  he  was  at 
fault  even  to  have  thought  of  that  pretty  and 
pure  and  friendly  child  in  such  surroundings. 

But  this  Arab  girl  was  not  like  other  dancers 
they  had  seen  in  the  quarter.  The  brownness 
of  her  skin  was  in  itself  a  kind  of  garment,  and 

26 


His  Daughter 

by  the  contemptuousness  of  her  bearing  and  the 
sullen,  defiant  curve  of  her  mouth  she  produced 
an  extraordinary  effect  of  modesty  and  self- 
respect. 

Dayton  found  himself  thinking:  "There  is 
a  person  who  has  touched  pitch  without  being 
defiled." 

Longstreet's  laughing  mood  was  over. 

"That  girl,"  he  announced,  in  his  clear  Eng- 
lish voice,  "is  beautiful." 

And  he  spoke  the  truth.  That  defiant  head 
and  perfect  body  should  have  been  perpetuated 
in  bronze.  Instead  they  would  perish  in  disease 
and  corruption.  And  yet,  as  she  danced  her 
slow  rhythmic  dance,  sullen  and  contemptuous, 
she  seemed  to  defy  time  and  experience. 

"There's  eternal  youth  for  you." 

And  in  his  heart  Dayton  echoed  that  thought 
and  added:  "Uncorrupted  and  incorruptible." 

In  their  depths  the  girl's  eyes  smouldered  with 
unawakened  fires.  If  ever  a  man  touched  her 
heart,  for  that  man  she  would  endure  torment 
and  death.  This  was  written  very  plainly  in 
the  depths  of  her  eyes.  As  for  all  other  men, 
let  them  come  and  go,  look  and  desire,  they  were 
of  no  more  account  than  dogs. 

An  immense  pity  for  the  girl  arose  in  Dayton's 
27 


His  Daughter 

heart.  But  this  was  complicated  by  other  feel- 
ings. He  imagined  what  it  would  be  like  to  have 
such  a  girl  in  love  with  him — not  with  Dayton 
the  American  landscape-gardener,  but  with  Day- 
ton if  Dayton  happened  to  be  an  entented,  stal- 
lion-riding young  Arab  of  her  tribe.  And  he  be- 
gan to  think  that  the  night  had  been  well  spent. 
For  she  was  making  him  feel  more  tenderly  and 
more  chivalrously  toward  all  women,  and  more 
understandingly. 

The  Arab  girl  danced,  and  behind  the  bluish 
tribal  mark  low  on  her  forehead  her  mind  worked 
and  received  impressions. 

Dayton's  broad  shoulders,  his  blondness,  and 
the  extreme  purity  of  his  skin  were  not  lost  upon 
her.  She  resented  his  expression  of  cool  placidity 
and,  with  a  view  to  disturbing  it,  danced  more 
directly  for  him  than  for  the  others,  and  from 
time  to  time,  through  narrowed  lids,  looked  enig- 
matically into  his  frank  and  not  very  deep  blue 
eyes. 

Each  time  she  read  in  those  eyes  admiration, 
it  is  true,  and  friendliness  and  pity.  So  that 
gradually  her  own  expression  became  less  sullen 
and  once  she  smiled  at  him — not  as  sirens  smile 
but  as  children. 

Longstreet's  laughter  was  heard  again. 
28 


His  Daughter 

"Dayton's  made  a  conquest!"  he  exclaimed. 

From  beneath  scowling  brows  the  girl  shot 
him  a  dagger  look  and  Longstreet's  laughter 
died  in  his  mouth.  The  dance  ended.  The  girl 
simply  turned  her  back  and  walked  out  of  the 
room. 

But  she  came  into  the  dark  hall  at  the  head 
of  the  stair  just  as  they  were  leaving.  She  was 
clothed  now  in  a  one-piece  dress  of  dark  red, 
and  there  were  clinky  chains  of  semi-precious 
stones  about  her  neck. 

"She  came  to  find  if  you  gentlemen  not  like 
her  dance,"  said  the  guide. 

"Tell  her  we  loved  it,"  said  Dayton.  "It 
was  splendid." 

In  that  same  tone  he  would  have  praised  some 
one  who  had  sung  pleasingly  an  innocent  song. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  directly  to  the  girl. 
"Thank  you  and  good  luck!" 

The  words  meant  nothing  to  her,  only  the 
friendliness  and  sincerity  of  the  voice.  No  man 
had  ever  spoken  to  her  in  that  tone  before.  And 
her  savage  heart  of  a  child  began  to  ache  in  her 
breast.  Had  he  even  turned  and  beckoned  she 
would  have  followed  him  down  the  stair,  into 
the  narrow  street,  to  the  ends  of  the  world,  with- 
out a  question  asked.  But  he  did  not  turn  and 

29 


His  Daughter 

beckon;  he  went  coolly  and  placidly  down  the 
stair. 

He  was  the  last  to  reach  the  street,  at  the  end 
of  which  the  one-horse  victoria  waited,  since  the 
street  itself  was  too  narrow  for  the  passage  of 
wheeled  vehicles. 

Dayton  walked  slowly,  looking  up  between  the 
tall,  dark  houses  into  a  ribbon  of  sky  spangled 
with  stars. 

The  guide  whispered  something. 

"What's  that?" 

"You  like  see  that  gal  again  sometime?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Dayton  coldly — and 
mechanically. 

The  next  day,  as  he  descended  the  terrace  of 
Shepheard's  Hotel,  he  found  the  guide  in  wait  for 
him.  In  the  broad  daylight  the  creature  had  a 
peculiarly  offensive  and  panderous  cast  of  coun- 
tenance. 

"You  like  see  that  gal  again  ?" 

"I  told  you  no.  Get  out!"  But  the  man 
lingered. 

"Well,  what's  the  idea?"  said  Dayton  sharply. 
"Didn't  you  hear  me  tell  you  to  get  out  ?  What 
do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

"Oh,  kind  sir,"  exclaimed  the  Egyptian,  "that 
gal  she  have  saved  ten  poun*  and  she  have  say 

30 


His  Daughter 

she  will  give  him  all  to  me  if  I  bring  you  to  see 
her." 

"She  will,  will  she?"  exclaimed  Dayton.  And 
he  laughed  aloud  and  walked  briskly  away. 

But  he  stopped  suddenly  before  he  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  block  and  turned  back.  The  op- 
portunity of  questioning  the  guide  further  had 
passed.  That  many-sided  man  was  beseeching 
a  stout  American  couple  to  let  him  conduct  them 
to  a  bazaar  where  "fairly  priceless"  rugs  were 
to  be  had  for  the  mere  asking. 

It  is  curious  that  as  time  passed  his  memories 
of  the  Arab  dancing  girl  troubled  Dayton  more 
and  more  instead  of  less  and  less. 

The  stench  of  the  courtyard  before  the  house, 
the  pretentious  squalor  of  the  house  itself,  the 
beastly  faces  of  the  musicians  faded;  and  there 
remained  only  the  image  of  the  girl  herself,  brown 
and  budding,  a  challenge  to  his  masculinity.  If 
he  had  been  brought  up  with  a  different  code  of 
morals  he  might  very  easily  have  yielded  to  the 
temptation  of  seeing  her  again.  That  she  had 
wished  to  see  him  again  was  a  percentage  of  the 
temptation.  He  was  young  enough  to  be  im- 
mensely flattered,  and  to  feel  that  perhaps  she 
was  really  in  love  with  him. 


His  Daughter 

He  was  less  tempted,  perhaps,  than  awakened. 
In  other  words,  an  adolescence,  subnormal  be- 
cause of  Spartan  ways  of  living,  had  passed,  and 
Frederick  Dayton  was  rapidly  changing  into  a 
normal  young  man. 

Cairo  seemed  gayer  to  him,  more  mysterious 
and  beautiful;  life  larger  and  better  worth  the 
living.  And  his  attitude  toward  life  underwent 
rapid  changes.  Each  morning  he  waked  with  ad- 
ditions to  his  self-confidence  and  with  a  strength- 
ening impetus  to  mastery — mastery  over  the 
tools  of  his  chosen  profession,  mastery  over  life 
itself. 

As  to  his  chosen  profession,  like  many  men  he 
was  weakest  in  that  department  for  which  he 
had  the  most  natural  talent.  And  he  waked  one 
morning  with  the  determination  to  take  his  draw- 
ing very  seriously  and  to  make  a  very  real  accom- 
plishment out  of  a  mere  facility. 

Thereafter  an  ample  sketch-book  accompanied 
him  on  all  his  excursions,  and  he  announced  to 
the  Grandisons  that  when  he  reached  Paris  he 
intended  to  take  unto  himself  a  studio  and  a  mas- 
ter. Secretly  he  began  to  dream  of  being  a 
painter  in  addition  to  being  a  landscape-gardener. 
And  there  was  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  be  a 
sculptor  too.  And,  by  George !  since  he  played 

32 


His  Daughter 

nicely  by  ear,  why  shouldn't  he  take  his  music 
seriously  ? 

He  laughed  at  his  sudden  multitudinous  ambi- 
tions, but  only  as  a  matter  of  form.  He  felt  within 
himself  the  strength  and  energy  to  heave  a  pyra- 
mid of  accomplishment  in  the  world.  He  would  be 
an  early  Italian.  Not  only  would  he  design  land- 
scapes, he  would  design  the  houses  which  they 
were  to  frame;  the  statues,  the  benches,  and  the 
fountains  in  the  gardens  should  be  from  his  hand, 
as  well  as  the  mural  paintings  in  the  house,  and — 
yes — the  door-knobs  themselves  and  the  hinges ! 

"Our  young  friend  grows  on  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Grandison  to  her  daughter.  "There's  more  to 
him  than  I  had  thought.  He  seemed  so  shy  and 
diffident  at  first;  but  either  he's  changed,  or  else 
he  really  is  shy  with  strangers  and  having  gotten 
over  that  with  us  he's  letting  us  see  what  he's 
really  like.  He  talks  about  his  future  with  shock- 
ing frivolity;  but  I  believe  in  my  heart  that  the 
world  is  going  to  hear  of  him  one  of  these  days, 
and  that  in  his  heart  he  knows  this." 

She  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  Dayton's 
sketch-book,  which  she  had  begged  of  him,  paus- 
ing now  and  then  over  some  feelingly  drawn  detail 
of  architecture  or  some  bold  attempt  to  reproduce 
the  life  of  a  Cairo  street. 

33 


His  Daughter 

"I'd  like  to  show  them  to  somebody  who  really 
knows"  she  said  maternally. 

"They're  different  from  the  things  he  drew  in 
the  train,"  said  Dorothy;  "those  were  just  fool- 
ing. But  these  are  as  good  as  he  can  do.  Oh,  I 
hope  he  really  does  take  a  studio  in  Paris  and 
begins  to  do  real  things.  You  must  have  him 
do  a  portrait  of  you,  mamma/' 

The  notion  of  being  on  intimate  terms  with 
studio  life  intrigued  and  fascinated  Dorothy.  At 
home,  among  girls  of  her  own  age,  it  would  be 
delightful  and  superior  to  begin  a  Parisian  anec- 
dote with  "Once  in  Fred  Dayton's  studio."  It 
would  be  the  choicest  acquirement  of  her  trip 
round  the  world. 

Dorothy,  too,  was  going  through  a  period  of 
awakening,  but  it  was  not  physical  as  in  Dayton's 
case.  It  was  of  the  mind  and  spirit.  She,  too, 
began  to  have  the  impetus  to  mobilize  her  ener- 
gies toward  some  definite  end.  But  as  no  such 
end  presented  itself  to  her  clearly,  she  found  it 
difficult  to  make  a  beginning.  She  bought  a  large 
blank  book  at  the  stationer's  and  in  the  form 
of  a  diary  attempted  to  reveal  her  own  soul  to 
herself.  But  certain  passages  which,  because  of 
their  naivete,  had  a  real  and  touching  value  of 
revelation,  seemed  to  her  so  silly  and  "ungrown- 

34 


His  Daughter 

upish"  that  she  soon  abandoned  the  attempt  and 
destroyed  the  diary. 

To  her  husband  at  this  time  Mrs.  Grandison 
wrote : 

If  you  are  really  going  to  join  us  in  Paris,  this  letter 
will  very  likely  miss  you.  There  will  be  no  harm  done. 
My  letter  of  credit  holds  out  and  we  are  in  excellent 
health.  We  have  found  some  old  friends  here  and 
made  some  new  ones — notably  Fred  Dayton,  of  whom 
I  have  already  written  to  you.  If  Dorothy  were  a 
little  older  I  should  be  worried  about  her.  The  tal- 
ented youth  has  completely  enslaved  her.  He  can  do 
no  wrong,  of  course,  while  she,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
frequently  very  humble  with  self-criticism.  In  some 
ways  he  is  as  young  and  unformed  as  she  is,  so  there 
is  nothing  to  worry  about.  I  am  sometimes  even  a 
little  resentful  that  he  doesn't  repay  Dorothy's  marked 
attentions  in  kind.  We  shall  be  here  ten  days  longer. 
The  races  begin  Monday  and  Cairo  is  altogether  gay 
and  charming. 

Etc.,  etc. 

It  was  hard  upon  the  sending  of  this  letter  that 
Dayton  announced  that  his  own  days  in  Cairo 
must  soon  draw  to  an  end.  It  had  been  planned 
that  he  should  go  on  to  Paris  with  the  Grandisons 
and  this  change  of  determination  made  Dorothy 
secretly  very  unhappy. 

In  her  own  way  of  thinking  she  was  genuinely 
35 


His  Daughter 

in  love  with  Dayton.  She  had  even  made  this 
confession  to  the  defunct  diary;  adding  that  even 
if  she  ever  did  get  over  it  she  could  never  love 
another.  That  he  might  one  day  return  her  love 
did  not  enter  her  humble  mind.  He  was  much 
too  wonderful  ever  to  notice  so  commonplace  an 
individual  as  herself,  and  now  he  was  going  away 
and  in  a  few  days,  doubtless,  would  forget  that 
she  existed.  .  .  . 

She  heard  his  laughter  in  the  garden  back  of 
the  hotel,  and  she  put  her  head  out  of  the  window 
to  find  out  what  he  was  laughing  at.  Presently 
she  discovered  him  and  at  the  same  moment  he 
looked  up  and  saw  her. 

"Come  down,"  he  called.  "I've  been  playing 
hide-and-seek  with  the  pelican." 

He  darted  behind  a  tree  trunk,  and  presently 
from  a  shrubbery  the  tame  pelican,  that  lived  in 
the  garden,  emerged  with  grotesque  solemnity, 
hunting  for  him.  Dorothy  did  not  wait  to  see 
more.  She  hurried  down-stairs  and  into  the  gar- 
den. The  game,  however,  was  over.  A  thin  fal- 
setto cry  in  Arabic  had  informed  the  pelican  that 
his  dinner  of  raw  fish  was  served,  and  he  had  in- 
stantly abandoned  the  society  of  the  American 
who  had  tempted  him  unto  undignified  frivolities. 

"Sorry,"  said  Dayton,  "but  the  game's  up. 
36 


His  Daughter 

He's  gone  to  his  dinner,  and  after  dinner  he  will 
stand  on  one  leg  and  sleep  for  two  hours.  But 
that's  no  reason  why  you  and  I  shouldn't  sit  down 
on  the  ground  and  tell  each  other  sad  stories 
about  the  deaths  of  kings  or  play  mumbly-peg. 
Which  shall  it  be?" 

He  seated  himself,  Arab  fashion,  took  out  his 
pocket  knife,  and  opened  the  big  blade.  But 
Dorothy  neither  wanted  to  play  mumbly-peg  or 
talk  about  the  demises  of  kings.  She  wanted  to 
tell  Dayton  how  much  she  loved  him;  and  of 
course  she  couldn't  do  that. 

So  she  seated  herself  opposite  him,  shook  her 
head  when  he  offered  her  first  turn  with  the  knife, 
and  looked  rather  wistfully  into  his  face. 

"I've  been  wondering,"  she  said,  "what  you'll 
be  like  when  we  see  you  again." 

"I  shouldn't  think  I'd  change  much  in  a  week 
or  ten  days." 

"What's  happened  to  Cairo  all  of  a  sudden 
that  you're  in  such  a  hurry  to  go  away  ?  There 
are  lots  and  lots  of  things  you  haven't  seen." 

"I'm  obsessed  with  the  idea  of  getting  to  Paris," 
he  said,  "and  settling  down  to  hard,  steady  work. 
I've  loved  Cairo — every  minute  of  it.  And  when 
I've  said  good-by  to  you  and  your  mother  I  'spect 
I'll  cry  all  the  way  to  Port  Said.  And,  speaking 

37 


His  Daughter 

of  sad  memories  and  bitter  tears,  I  want  a  photo- 
graph of  you" 

"I  haven't  one." 

"Then  we'll  get  up  off  the  ground  and  "go  and 
have  one  taken.  There's  a  French  studio  down 
the  street.  We  don't  need  hats,  do  we?" 

She  rose  at  once,  obedient  and  happy,  and  they 
had  themselves  abundantly  photographed  with 
backgrounds  of  camels  and  pyramids  and  with- 
out. Then,  because  it  wasn't  tea-time,  they 
stopped  in  another  French  place  and  ate  charming 
little  cakes,  and  sat  close  to  a  window  and  watched 
the  life  of  Cairo  go  by. 

One  bit  of  Cairo  life  was  an  Arab  girl,  veiled 
below  the  dark,  smouldering  eyes.  She  halted  op- 
posite the  window,  stared  directly  into  Dayton's 
face  for  a  moment  and  then  into  Dorothy's. 
Then  she  turned  and  with  a  savage  and  contemp- 
tuous shrug  of  her  shoulders  passed  on. 

Only  the  girl's  eyes  showed.  But  Dayton  had 
recognized  her  as  surely  as  if  she  had  appeared 
as  on  the  night  when  he  had  first  seen  her.  And 
for  a  few  moments  his  heart  beat  with  swift,  hard 
strokes. 

"Hope  she'll  know  us  the  next  time  she  sees 
us,"  said  Dorothy.  "Lordy,  what  manners!" 

"She  probably  doesn't  get  out  of  the  native 
38 


His  Daughter 

quarter  often,"  said  Dayton;  "and  white  people 
are  immense  curiosities  to  her.  I  don't  believe 
she  gets  much  fun  out  of  life.  They  don't,  you 
know — most  of  them.  And  if  she  gets  any  fun 
out  of  staring  at  me  I  don't  mind." 

"I  don't  see  why  she  should  be  so  savage  about 
it.  She  looked  at  me  as  if  she  wanted  to  murder 
me." 

That  second  sight  of  the  Arab  dancing  girl,  all 
her  beauties  hidden  except  her  eyes,  disturbed 
Dayton  even  more  than  the  first.  There  must 
have  been  a  subtle  affinity  between  them;  for 
each  apparently  had  only  to  look  to  upset  the 
equanimity  of  the  other.  In  thinking  about  her 
he  made  the  discovery  that  what  he  imagined  to 
be  a  code  of  morality  by  which  all  his  life  was  to 
be  governed  existed  only  in  his  imagination.  Be- 
tween him  and  the  dancing  girl  the  obstacle  was 
no  upheaved  ground  of  morality  but  rather  a 
timidity  of  manners  and  a  natural  shrinking  from 
untried  experiments.  In  the  seething  crowds  of 
the  native  quarter  he  could  not  hope  to  find  her 
unaided.  And  the  notion  of  having  recourse  to 
the  guide  Ali  was  repugnant  to  him.  If  he  were 
to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  average  man,  he 
had  the  natural  wish  that  his  followings  should 

39 


His  Daughter 

be  unknown  to  any  one  but  himself  and  the  direct 
object  of  his  impulses.  Nevertheless,  there  were 
times  when,  if  the  guide  Ali  had  suddenly  con- 
fronted him  with  "Massa  want  to  see  that  gal 
again  ? "  he  might  have  flung  caution  to  the  winds 
and  said  "Yes." 

Some  say  that  propinquity  has  inevitable  re- 
sults; others  hold  that  it  is  absence  which  makes 
the  heart  grow  fonder.  But  the  latter  is  only 
true  when  the  effect  of  propinquity  is  maintained 
by  the  power  of  imagination.  For  the  last  days 
of  his  stay  in  Cairo  the  dancing  girl  and  Dayton 
were  seldom  far  apart — in  Dayton's  imagination. 

His  imagination  made  much  of  her  and  endowed 
her  with  allurements  which  she  did  not  in  reality 
possess.  He  took  to  wandering  in  the  native 
quarter  hoping  for  an  accidental  meeting.  In  the 
course  of  these  peregrinations  other  adventures 
which  presented  themselves  so  frequently  and 
with  such  ardor  in  that  city  of  sudden  love-affairs 
left  him  cold  and  even  indignant.  It  is  possible, 
such  was  his  inexperience,  that  even  the  acciden- 
tal meeting  which,  in  general  terms,  he  was  actu- 
ally seeking  might  have  had  the  same  effect  on 
him.  It  is  sure  that  she  could  never  have  seemed 
so  desirable  to  him  in  actuality  as  in  imagination. 
If  he  left  Cairo  without  seeing  her  again  he  would 

40 


His  Daughter 

always  regret  it;  conversely,  if  he  did  see  her  again 
he  might  always  regret  that. 

After  lunch  on  the  last  day  of  his  stay  in  Cairo 
he  saw  Dorothy  Grandison  taking  coffee  on  the 
terrace  and  joined  her. 

"Already,"  he  said,  "I  am  beginning  to  feel 
very  tearful." 

"Your  train  goes  first  thing  in  the  morning?" 

"Seven." 

"And  you  go  to  Port  Said  ?" 

"Then  across  to  Brindisi,  then  Naples,  then  to 
Rome,  then  to  Milan,  and  then  to  Paris." 

"We'll  miss  you  dreadfully." 

"I'll  miss  you  dreadfully.  What  a  lot  of  fun 
we've  had !  But  when  you  get  to  Paris  we'll 
begin  right  where  we  left  off.  You  are  the  best 
little  pal  that  ever  was  !" 

"If  only  I  wasn't  a  girl!"  exclaimed  Dorothy. 

"Why,  Dorothy,"  he  said,  "this  is  very  sud- 
den. Explain." 

"Girls  just  skim  the  surface  of  things.  I  can't 
prowl  around  the  native  quarter  with  you  and  see 
things  from  the  inside,  or  go  to  the  Sphinx  Cafe 
and  hear  the  men  who've  had  adventures  all  over 
the  world  tell  about  them.  It's  beastly  to  be  a 
girl." 

Dayton  laughed  at  her;  but  she  did  not  laugh. 


His  Daughter 

"For  instance,"  she  said,  "did  you  have  a  lot 
of  fun  the  other  night  ?" 

"What  other  night?" 

"I  heard  a  'carriage  coming  up  the  empty 
street.  I  think  the  noise  waked  me.  I  looked 
out  of  the'  window  and  saw  you  and  Mr.  Long- 
street  and  some  other  men  I  didn't  know." 

"Why,"  said  Dayton,  "we  hired  a  guide  to 
show  us  some  of  the  native  theatres  and  dance- 
halls." 

"Oh,  what  fun!" 

"But  it  wasn't  fun,"  he  said  seriously,  "not 
even  once.  Some  of  it  was  interesting,  and  I 
suppose  some  of  it  was  funny,  but  it  was  all  rather 
sordid  and  tinselly,  and  it  was  long  like  years. 
And  this  is  the  proof  that  it  couldn't  have  been 
much  fun !  None  of  us  has  showed  the  slightest 
inclination  to  go  the  rounds  again,  and  the  next 
day  I  was  so  sleepy  and  tired  that  I  couldn't  hold 
my  head  up." 

"Are  you  going  to  the  races  ?" 

"I  cant.  I've  my  packing  to  do,  and  I've  run 
up  little  bills  here  and  there  that  I've  got  to  run 
about  and  pay." 

She  looked  her  disappointment. 

"And  to-night  they  are  giving  you  a  farewell 
dinner?" 

"Longstreet  and  some  of  the  men  I've  beea 
42 


His  Daughter 

friendly  with.  I  couldn't  refuse  very  well.  But 
I'm  not  looking  forward  to  it.  I'd  rather  tumble 
into  my  regular  place  at  the  table-d'hote  next  to 
you  and  your  mother." 

"Truly?" 

"Of  course.    On  my  last  night." 

"Then" — her  face  fell — "it's  good-by  here  and 
now.  Mamma's  gone  to  her  room  for  some 
money  to  bet  at  the  races  and  our  carriage  is 
waiting;  and  by  the  time  your  dinner-party  is 
over  I'll  have  been  sent  to  bed." 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and  the  inner 
corners  of  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"But  I  won't  say  good-by  now,"  said  Dayton 
gravely.  "I  insist  on  seeing  you  again.  I  know 
how  to  fix  it." 

He  gave  her  a  sovereign. 

"Bet  this  for  me,"  he  said;  "shut  your  eyes 
and  stick  a  hatpin  into  the  entries  for  the  third 
race.  You  are  sure  to  win,  and  of  course  you 
wouldn't  think  of  letting  me  leave  without  turn- 
ing over  my  winnings  to  me!" 

Her  hand  closed  over  the  sovereign. 

Then  Mrs.  Grandison  came,  and  Dayton  es- 
corted the  ladies  to  their  carriage. 

Sometime  between  their  return  from  the  races 
and  dinner  Dayton  intended  to  take  a  formal 

43 


His  Daughter 

farewell  of  the  Grandisons,  but  about  six  o'clock, 
hot  and  dusty,  he  dropped  in  at  the  Sphinx  Cafe 
for  a  cocktail,  found  a  number  of  acquaintances 
and,  as  is  customary  on  such  occasions,  drank 
more  than  the  one  cocktail  and  considerably  out- 
stayed the  time  at  his  disposal.  He  returned  to 
the  hotel,  indeed,  with  only  twenty  minutes  in 
which  to  bathe  and  dress  for  dinner. 

Like  many  young  men  who  are  not  accustomed 
to  alcohol,  Dayton  had  a  very  strong  head.  But 
the  cocktails,  although  they  had  not  changed 
him  outwardly,  had  had  the  effect  of  making  him 
feel  a  little  reckless  and  gloriously  alive. 

Striding  along,  his  head  high,  he  found  himself 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  the  guide  Ali.  Dayton 
came  to  an  abrupt  halt;  he  could  not  have  said 
why. 

"You  like  to  see  that  gal  again,  kind  sir?"  said 
Ali  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,'*  answered  Dayton  brazenly.  "Why 
not?" 

"You  come  now  ?" 

"I've  got  a  dinner  now,  and  then  we're  going  to 
the  Sphinx.  I'll  tell  you:  you  be  in  the  garden 
back  of  the  hotel  between  half  past  eleven  and 
twelve.  I'll  come." 

x  Yes,  kind  sir." 

44 


His  Daughter 

"  Have  a  carriage  waiting  down  the  street. 
And  look  here;  if  you  mention  this  to  any  one, 
now  or  any  time,  I'll  knock  your  head  off." 

'*  Yes,  kind  sir." 

But  no  sooner  had  Dayton  reached  his  room 
than  he  began  to  repent  of  what  he  had  done. 
Shame  intruded  upon  his  mood,  whichlhad  been 
all  made  up  of  recklessness  and  desire.  But  at 
least  there  was  no  harm  done.  He  simply  wouldn't 
keep  his  appointment  with  All  in  the  garden. 
The  laugh  would  be  on  AH. 

A  dozen  times  while  he  bathed  and  dressed 
Dayton  determined  to  keep  the  appointment  and 
a  dozen  times  he  determined  to  break  it.  Still 
undecided,  he  joined  Longstreet  in  the  grill. 

With  Longstreet  were  Carter,  a  big-game-hunt- 
ing American,  and  Linotto,  the  Italian,  from  whom 
emanated  the  mysterious  impression  that  he  had 
something  to  do  with  international  finance.  Four 
other  men  were  expected,  but,  as  these  had  not 
yet  materialized,  Longstreet,  as  host,  led  the  way 
into  the  bar  and  ordered  cocktails.  These  were 
no  sooner  downed  than  the  arrival  of  Evans,  Til- 
inghast,  and  Carrington  necessitated  further  hos- 
pitalities. 

But  there  was  no  need  to  wait  dinner  for  Fitz- 
roy,  so  Tilinghast  explained.  At  the  races  Fitz- 

45 


His  Daughter 

roy  had  finally,  it  seemed,  succeeded  in  getting 
himself  introduced  to  the  wife  of  the  Levantine 
gambler.  This  one  had  promptly  asked  him  to 
dinner  and,  considering  that  since  his  arrival  in 
Cairo  he  had  had  eyes  for  nothing  else,  it  was 
only  natural  that  he  had  chucked  Longstreet's 
party  and  accepted. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  a  little  tete-a-tete  dinner  with 
her  myself,"  Tilinghast  concluded. 

"She's  a  screamer  to  look  at,"  said  Carter, 
"with  that  white  streak  across  her  black  hair." 

The  conversation  during  dinner  touched  upon 
many  topics — women,  war,  horses,  the  natural 
resources  of  unexploited  countries,  gambling,  and 
politics.  Champagne  was  served  with  the  first 
course,  and  the  diners  became  exceedingly  merry 
and  inclined  to  laughter. 

Dayton  enjoyed  himself  hugely.  He  had  never 
in  his  life  felt  so  mentally  alert,  so  strong  physi- 
cally, or  so  entirely  glad  to  be  alive.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  with  very  little  effort,  indeed,  he  was 
bound  in  a  short  time  to  become  a  very  great 
artist.  Outwardly  calm  and  cool,  his  speech 
even  and  quiet,  he  was  in  reality  enjoying  a  kind 
of  seventh  heaven  of  intoxication. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  party  adjourned  to  the 
Sphinx  for  coffee  and  liqueurs.  Longstreet  had 

46 


His  Daughter 

hired  the  up-stairs  room,  and  there  were  to  be 
dancing  girls  and  music  and  more  champagne. 
By  eleven  o'clock  the  proprietor  of  the  Sphinx 
begged  permission  to  join  them.  He  was  invited 
up  his  own  back  stairs  with  cheering  and  shouts 
of  welcome. 

Dayton  seized  the  opportunity  to  draw  Long- 
street  aside. 

"I'm  going  to  run  over  to  the  hotel,"  he  said, 
"to  finish  my  packing." 

"But  you'll  come  back." 

"Of  course." 

But  Dayton  had  no  intention  of  coming  back. 
Still  sober  in  speech  and  appearance,  the  alcohol 
had  burned  his  last  scruples  of  morals  and  inex- 
perience to  ashes.  And  thoughts  of  the  Arab 
dancing  girl  who,  he  had  reason  to  believe, 
awaited  him  with  the  same  eagerness  with  which 
he  was  going  to  her,  had  completely  inflamed 
him. 

But  he  did  not  at  once  look  for  Ali  in  the  gar- 
den back  of  the  hotel.  The  night  was  now  biting 
cold  and  he  went  first  to  his  rooms  for  a  heavy 
overcoat  and  a  fresh  supply  of  cigarettes. 

At  the  end  of  the  corridor  in  which  his  room 
was  located  the  door  of  the  Grandisons'  sitting- 
room  was  open  and  at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps 

47 


His  Daughter 

Dorothy  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  called  to 
him  softly. 

Dayton  did  not  in  the  least  wish  to  see  the 
Grandisons  at  that  moment,  nor  indeed  to  be 
seen  by  them.  But  there  was  no  escape.  And 
he  answered  Dorothy's  hail  with  assumed  cheer- 
fulness. To  his  relief  Mrs.  Grandison  was  not  in 
the  sitting-room.  Dorothy  explained: 

"Mamma  said  I  could  sit  up  till  half  past 
eleven  to  say  good-by.  She  wanted  to  also,  but 
she  was  dead  with  sleep." 

"You'll  say  good-by  to  her  for  me,  and  give  her 
my  love  ?" 

He  was  pleased  with  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 
It  sounded  natural  to  him  and  evidently  it  sounded 
natural  to  Dorothy,  for  her  eyes,  turned  adoringly 
up  to  his,  had  no  look  of  sudden  questioning  in 
them  but  only  of  constant  faith.  Her  right  hand 
was  tightly  clinched;  she  opened  it  now  and  offered 
him  five  golden  sovereigns. 

"For  me?"  he  asked  with  assumed  eagerness. 

"For  you." 

"But  why?" 

"I  picked  a  horse  for  you  in  the  third  race," 
she  said,  "  according  to  instructions,  and  of  course 
he  romped  in  an  easy  winner." 

Dayton  at  once  remembered  the  sovereign  which 
48 


His  Daughter 

he  had  given  her  to  bet  for  him,  and  all  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

"And  you  picked  him  blindfolded  with  a  hat- 
pin ?  And  you  had  to  sit  up  to  give  me  my  win- 
nings— just  as  I'd  planned  ?"  he  laughed  gleefully. 

"Was  the  party  fun?" 

"Noisy  and  friendly,  but  fun.  Personally  I've 
escaped  to  finish  my  packing." 

Dorothy  sighed. 

"It  was  sweet  of  you,"  said  Dayton,  "to  sit 
up  all  this  time  just  to  say  good-by  to  me." 

"I'd  have  sat  up  all  night  gladly,"  she  said, 
"only  mamma  limited  me  to  half  past  eleven. 
And  I'm  afraid  it's  that  now.  And  so " 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  noticed  that  she 
looked  pale  and  tremulous. 

"It's  meant  a  lot  to  me,"  he  said,  "getting 
to  be  friends  with  you.  We'll  always  be  good 
friends,  won't  we?" 

"Oh,  I'm  just  a  kid,"  Dorothy  rebelled. 

"Just  a  kid  ?  Well,  you'll  get  over  that,  and 
you  know  heaps  more  than  most  grown  people. 
Good-by,  Dorothy,  and  I  wish  you  all  the  best 
luck  in  the  world." 

He  had  reached  the  door.  She  called  him 
back.  If  she  had  been  pale  before  she  was  white 
as  death  now. 

49 


His  Daughter 

"I'm  not  really  just  a  kid,'*  she  said. 

"I  know  that,"  he  said  gravely.  For  it  was 
obvious  to  him  that  she  was  facing  a  crisis  of 
some  sort. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  didn't  want  you  to  go  away 
like  that." 

"No?"  He  came  closer  to  her.  White  as  she 
was  she  was  bewitchingly  pretty,  and  the  strength 
of  her  feeling  for  him  lent  her  face  a  kind  of  glory. 
Dayton  was  tremendously  touched  and  moved. 
And  he  knew  that  he,  too,  was  facing  a  crisis. 

He  put  his  arm  gently  around  her  shoulders. 
And  she  trembled  at  his  touch. 

"Do  you  care  so  much?"  he  said. 

"And  you — you  don't  care  at  all?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  right  for  me  to  say  that  I 
cared,"  he  said;  "it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you. 
The  more  I've  grown  fond  of  you,  Dorothy,  the 
more  I've  tried  to  think  of  you  and  to  treat  you 
as  a  little  girl." 

"You  thought  I  just  had  a  silly  schoolgirl 
mash  on  you.  You  don't  think  that  now?" 

"No.  I  don't  think  that  now.  I  think  you 
really  care.  And  as  for  me — well,  because  you 
are  just  a  kid  I'd  promised  myself  that  I  wouldn't 
let  myself  care.  But  I  do  care.  I  can't  help  it." 

But,  though  he  did  not  care  in  the  same  way 
50 


His  Daughter 

that  she  cared,  there  could  be  no  harm  in  letting 
her  think  that  he  did — so  he  swiftly  argued. 

She  had  turned  toward  him.  He  folded  his 
other  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her.  And  she 
kissed  him  back  with  all  her  heart  and  soul  and 
with  a  strength  of  passion  that  frightened  him, 
and  the  realization  that  he  wished  to  keep  on 
kissing  her  frightened  him  still  more.  He  shifted 
his  hands  to  her  shoulders  and  held  her  at  arm's 
length. 

"Now  we  belong  to  each  other,"  she  said 
happily. 

"Yes,  Dorothy." 

"For  always  and  always." 

He  wished  to  say  "Yes.  But  for  heaven's 
sake  let's  keep  this  to  ourselves  until  you  are 
old  enough  to  keep  me  from  looking  like  a  de- 
signing cradle-snatcher."  But  he  did  not  say 
it,  for  something  told  him  that  he  could  trust 
her  good  sense.  So  instead  he  said:  "Yes,  Dor- 
othy— for  always  and  always."  And  at  that  mo- 
ment he  really  loved  her. 

"Good-by,  my  darling,"  he  said,  "till  we  meet 
in  Paris." 

And  he  lifted  both  her  hands  and  kissed  them. 
Then,  because  tears  were  rising  in  her  eyes,  he 
smiled  gayly. 


His  Daughter 

"Paris  isn't  far  off,"  he  said,  "and  by  the 
way,  you  haven't  told  me  the  name  of  the  horse 
that  won  for  us." 

"His  name  was  Temperament,"  she  said, 
smiling  through  her  incipient  tears.  "That's 
a  funny  name  for  a  horse." 

"Ali,"  said  Dayton  coldly,  "is  it  true  that 
dancing  girl  offered  you  ten  pounds  to  bring  me 
to  see  her?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  kind  sir." 

"Well,  here's  ten  pounds  for  you.  I  don't 
want  you  to  feel  that  you  owe  me  a  grudge." 

"And  the  carriage,  kind  sir,  that  is  waiting 
down  the  street  ?" 

"I  guess  you  can  afford  to  pay  for  that  your- 
self." 

Dayton  turned  on  his  heel,  ascended  the  steps 
to  the  terrace  and  entered  the  hotel.  He  was 
in  a  mood  of  exaltation  and  high  moral  purpose. 


II 

DAYTON  was  not  disappointed  at  learning 
that  his  sister,  the  Countess  de  Sejour, 
and  her  husband  had  not  yet  returned  to  Paris 
from  their  winter  house  near  Antibes.  For  a 
few  days  he  wanted  to  have  Paris  all  to  himself, 
and  for  the  first  three  or  four  days,  from  early 
morning  until  late  night,  he  loitered  lazily  and 
indefatigably  along  the  streets  and  quays,  avoid- 
ing only  those  parts  of  the  city  which  do  not  be- 
long to  the  French  but  to  the  whole  world,  and 
where  he  would  have  run  the  risk  of  being 
buttonholed  by  friends  and  acquaintances.  For 
once  in  his  life  he  wanted  to  be  alone  in  Paris, 
to  hear  nothing  but  French  spoken,  to  eat  when 
and  where  hunger  overtook  him,  and  to  dream 
about  the  great  things  that  he  was  going  to  do. 
But  sometimes  he  dreamed  about  the  Arab 
dancing  girl  and  sometimes  about  Dorothy 
Grandison,  and  sometimes  he  dreamed  about 
other  young  women  who  existed  only  in  his 
dreams.  .  .  . 

DEAR  DOROTHY: 

Sudden  rain  has  chased  me  under  the  awning  of  a 
cafe,  and  I  have  bought  note-paper  and  an  envelope 

53 


His  Daughter  . 

and   a   dark,  sticky   pencil.     Give  my  love  to  your 
mother ! 

The  rain  has  chased  other  people  under  the  awning. 
To  my  right  the  broad,  fat  back  of  a  neckless  man;  to 
my  left  the  fine  old  Church  of  St.  Germain  des  Pres; 
in  front  of  me,  planted  on  the  sidewalk,  a  circular 
newspaper-stand  protected  by  a  tentlike  umbrella  of 
canvas;  stand  contains  one  red-headed  girl  and  one 
very  small  messenger-boy.  The  messenger-boy  is 
probably  very  witty,  because  every  now  and  then  he 
says  something  to  the  girl  and  she  doubles  up  with 
laughter.  Now  I  will  draw  a  picture  of  them.  .  .  . 

It  would  be  better  if  they  hadn't  found  out  that  I 
was  doing  it,  and  after  that  I  couldn't  look  at  them 
often  enough  to  make  real  portraits. 

Except  to  waiters  and  the  clerk  at  the  hotel,  I 
haven't  spoken  to  a  soul  since  I  arrived.  But  to- 
morrow I  hunt  for  a  studio,  and  in  a  few  days  my  sister 
comes  back  from  Antibes  and  I'll  have  to  be  gregarious. 

Do  I  have  to  say  that  I  am  looking  forward  to  the 
arrival  in  Paris  of  Mrs.  Grandison  and  Miss  Grandi- 
son  ?  No,  I  don't  have  to  say  that;  but  I  do.  The 
rain  is  letting  up,  and  so  am  I. 

Your  faithful  friend, 

F.  DAYTON. 


He  addressed  the  letter  and  bought  a  stamp 
from  the  girl  in  the  circular  newspaper-stand. 
During  this  small  transaction  each  displayed 
a  certain  amount  of  self-consciousness.  The  girl 
knew  that  the  blond  American  had  made  a  draw- 
ing of  her.  And  he  knew  that  she  knew.  The 

54 


His  Daughter 

girl,  however,  was  not  self-conscious  to  the  point 
of  embarrassment. 

"Monsieur  est  artiste  ?" 

"Un  peu." 

He  paid  for  his  stamp,  bought  a  newspaper  in 
addition,  wished  her  good  day,  and  turned  away. 
He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  heard  her  laughing. 
He  looked  back.  She  and  the  messenger-boy 
were  looking  at  him,  and  both  were  laughing. 
The  messenger-boy  looked  knowing  and  wicked 
when  he  laughed;  the  girl,  somewhat  to  Day- 
ton's surprise,  looked  pretty.  She  had  very 
white  teeth  and  humorous  eyes.  The  next  morn- 
ing, remembering  that  she  had  looked  pretty, 
he  walked  all  the  way  from  his  hotel  (that  of 
France  and  of  England)  to  St.  Germain  des  Pres 
and  bought  his  morning  papers  of  her. 

He  wished  to  know  why  she  had  laughed  at 
him,  and  intended  to  ask  her.  But  his  courage 
failed  him,  and  beyond  her  "Bon  jour,  m'sieur," 
and  his  "  Bon  jour,  ma'm'selle,"  and  such  phrases 
as  occur  in  the  buying  and  selling  of  newspapers, 
they  had  no  conversation. 

He  went  away  feeling  rather  foolish.  He 
walked  the  streets,  not  seeking  adventures,  but 
half  wishing  that  he  was  the  kind  of  man  who 
does  seek  them,  and  making  the  most  of  every 

55 


His  Daughter 

bit  of  female  loveliness  that  met  his  eye.  But  it 
would  be  unjust  to  give  the  impression  that  this 
business  entirely  engrossed  him. 

Who  is  there,  who  is  not  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind, 
that  can  walk  the  streets  of  Paris  with  a  mind 
concentrated  upon  any  one  thing  ? 

That  return  for  another  look  at  the  red-headed 
girl  was  typical  of  Dayton's  attitude  toward  wo- 
men at  this  time.  That  is  to  say,  his  attitude 
was  bold — except  when  he  was  in  their  imme- 
diate presence.  All  the  long  walk  to  the  news- 
paper-stand he  had  imagined  conversations  with 
the  pretty  vender  of  newspapers;  but  in  her 
actual  presence  he  had  been  practically  tongue- 
tied.  Is  it  columns  you  like?  Well,  your  eyes 
will  be  distracted  by  the  pearls  in  Rue  de  la  Paix 
windows  on  your  way  to  that  column  which 
stands  in  the  Place  Vendome.  Or,  if  you  care 
for  pearls,  it  will  be  the  columns'  turn  to  distract 
you.  From  morning  to  night  not  one  thing  in- 
terested Dayton,  but  a  thousand  things  and  the 
one.  Architecture,  sculpture,  painting,  jewel- 
work,  furniture,  hinges,  knockers,  bridges,  gar- 
dens, iron  fences  and  balconies,  porcelain,  little 
children,  fruit-shops,  the  markets,  the  bogus 
antiques  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  the  stately  pro- 
portions of  public  squares  and  buildings,  those 

56 


His  Daughter 

thrilling  perspectives  to  which  Paris  lends  herself 
as  naturally  as  flowers  lend  themselves  to  open- 
ing— these  things  complicated  the  feelings  which 
the  sight  of  a  pretty  face  or  the  memory  of  one 
roused  in  him. 

And  then  he  found  a  studio  which  he  liked — 
it  had  a  view  of  the  Luxembourg  Gardens — in- 
stalled himself,  and,  in  the  same  spirit  with  which 
he  had  trained  for  his  college  teams,  went  to  work. 
The  De  Sejours,  having  returned  to  Paris,  had 
recommended  various  masters  to  him,  and  he 
began  to  draw,  model,  and  study  harmony  with 
a  perfect  fury  of  concentration.  Curiously  enough 
the  modelling,  a  medium  which  he  had  never 
before  attempted,  turned  out  to  be  the  art  for 
which  he  had  the  most  natural  facility. 

He  grew  rapidly  very  jealous  of  his  working- 
hours  and  looked  upon  interruptions  to  them 
with  hatred.  And  the  imminence,  therefore,  of 
Dorothy  Grandison's  arrival  in  Paris  troubled 
him  greatly.  "I'll  have  to  chuck  everything," 
he  thought,  "and  be  at  her  beck  and  call." 

It  was  a  curious  attitude;  not  quite  so  cold- 
blooded as  it  reads.  He  was  half  in  love  with 
the  child.  Memories  of  their  last  meeting,  when 
she  had  so  bravely  and  maturely  shown  her  adora- 

57 


His  Daughter 

tion  for  him,  touched  him  to  the  quick.  Some 
day  when  they  were  both  older — well,  why  was 
he  working  so  hard  if  not  to  be  ready  for  the  day 
when,  she  still  caring  and  he  still  caring,  and  all 
their  friends  applauding,  they  should  meet  (she 
the  great  beauty  and  he  the  famous  early  Italian) 
before  the  altar  of  St.  Bartholomew's,  or  some 
other  altar  just  as  good  ? 

But  when  she  and  her  mother  actually  emerged 
from  the  train  which  he  had  gone  to  meet,  she 
looked  so  lovely  and  looked  at  him  so  adoringly, 
that  he  forgot  all  about  drawing  and  modelling 
and  harmony  and  early-Italianisms,  and  wanted 
only  to  give  her  a  great  hug  and  tell  her  how 
much  he  loved  her,  and  how  dreadfully  he 
had  missed  her  all  these  long,  weary,  lonely 
days! 

But  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  put  them 
in  a  cab,  and  later,  when  he  had  succeeded  in 
rescuing  their  trunks  from  the  baggage-master, 
followed  them  to  their  hotel — the  old  Chatham 
in  the  Rue  Daunon — and  had  lunch  with  them, 
or  breakfast  as  the  French  call  it,  to  distinguish 
it  from  "little  breakfast"  with  which  meal  of 
rolls  and  honey  and  chocolate  the  leisurely  and 
intelligent  French  day  begins. 

It  was  not  till  after  lunch  that  Dayton  had  a 
58 


His  Daughter 

word  alone  with  Dorothy,  Mrs.  Grandison  having 
excused  herself  on  a  pretext  of  letter-writing. 

They  sat  in  the  paved  courtyard  of  the  hotel, 
at  opposite  sides  of  a  round  iron  table  painted 
green,  and  had  a  good  look  at  each  other — a  good 
look  which  ended  in  two  thoroughly  charmed 
smiles. 

"  I  was  afraid  you'd  be  different,"  said  Dorothy. 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  for  at  one  of  the  other 
tables  sat  a  solitary  old  woman  who  had  nothing 
better  to  do  than  to  glare  at  them  and, try  to  over- 
hear what  they  said  to  each  other. 

"You  are  different,"  Dayton  answered. 

"Older?" 

"Older." 

"When  you  care  about  somebody,"  she  said, 
"nothing  stands  still.  Being  engaged  isn't  child's 
play,  is  it?" 

He  chuckled  happily.  "I  was  afraid  maybe 
you'd  thought  over  being  engaged  and  found  it 
wanting." 

She  did  not  trouble  to  shake  her  head;  her 
candid  and  innocent  eyes  seemed  to  say:  "I 
shall  be  faithful  till  death." 

"When  will  you  be  sixteen,  Dorothy?" 

"Next  month.  And  in  two  years  I'll  be  of 
age,  and  you'll  be  famous." 

59 


His  Daughter 

"You're  sure  of  that?" 

"Of  course." 

"  But  you  won't  count  on  it  ?  You'll  be  satis- 
fied if  I'm  still  working  hard  and  trying  to  be, 
won't  you?" 

"Of  course." 

"Have  you  missed  me  ?" 

"Terribly.  But  I  didn't  want  mamma  to  know 
about  us  yet,  and  so  I  tried  to  put  on  a  cheerful 
appearance.  Sometimes  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep 
for  hours.  I'd  stare  at  the  dark  and  think  of 
all  the  terrible  things  that  might  just  possibly 
happen  to  you." 

"Sometimes  you  keep  me  awake,"  he  said  in 
a  reproachful  voice. 

"Tell!" 

"I  worry  and  worry  because,  looking  at  things 
from  any  possible  slant,  I  can't  persuade  myself 
that  I've  been  fair  to  you.  You  think  grown-up 
and  you  almost  look  grown-up,  but  the  fact  re- 
mains that  you  aren't  grown-up,  and  I've  made 
you  care  for  me,  and  it  wasn't  fair.  But,  you 
being  you,  I  just  couldn't  help  it." 

"Why  wasn't  it  fair?" 

"Because  your  mind  is  growing  and  changing, 
just  as  the  rest  of  you  is  growing  and  changing. 
And  maybe  what  seems  worth  while  to  you  now 

60 


His  Daughter 

won't  seem  worth  while  to  you  two  years  from 
now.  But  because  you've  got  the  kind  of  char- 
acter you've  got  you'll  feel  that  because  you've 
bound  yourself  to  me,  you  mustn't  even  try  to 
find  out  what  other  men  are  like;  and  I'm  afraid 
feeling  yourself  bound  to  me  will  handicap  you 
in  all  sorts  of  other  ways.  You  don't  think  I've 
been  unfair,  and  maybe  I  make  excuses  for  my- 
self; but  if  your  mother  knew  about  us  she'd  be 
disgusted  with  me,  and  if  I  was  an  outsider  and 
knew  of  a  case  like  ours  I'd  be  disgusted  with 
the  man." 

"  But  it  isn't  fair  to  judge  one  case  by  another. 
You  didn't  try  to  make  me  like  you.  But  good- 
ness knows  I  tried  to  make  you  like  me,  and  you 
never  even  hinted  you  liked  me  until  I  declared 
a  leap-year  and  told  you  how  I  felt  about  you.'* 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Dayton  had  a  won- 
derful feeling  of  chivalrousness  and  tenderness. 

"How  about  seeing  each  other,  Dorothy?  Can 
we  go  drives  and  walks  together  like  Cairo?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  Mamma  says  that  in  Paris 
girls  simply  cannot  go  about  without  chaperons. 
It's  ridiculous,  of  course,  but  mamma  is  a  per- 
fectly good  mamma  whom  to  hear  is  to  obey — 
unless  she  interfered  with  something  really  serious. 
And,  besides,  papa  isn't  coming  over  to  join  us, 

61 


His  Daughter 

and  we'll  only  be  here  long  enough  to  get  some 
clothes  made." 

/'That's  bad,"  said  Dayton  simply.  "I've 
been  looking  forward  to  weeks  and  weeks  of  just 
you  and  Paris.  I'm  getting  to  know  something 
about  Paris,  and  I  did  hope  I  could  show  you 
that  little  and  that  together  we  could  go  about 
hand  in  hand  and  find  out  a  whole  lot  more. 
...  I  wish  .  .  ." 

"My  lord  wishes  .  .  .  ?" 

"That  you  were  eighteen  and  that  your  father 
was  coming  over  by  the  next  boat  to  look  after 
your  mother,  and  that  they  were  going  to  give 
you  to  me  to  look  after,  and  that  I  was  rich  and 
famous  and  beautiful  and  good." 

The  courtyard  clock  cleared  its  throat  and  rang 
three  times. 

"I  have  to  get  ready  to  go  out  with  mamma," 
said  Dorothy.  "But  you  come  up,  too.  We 
have  a  parlor." 

To  young  lovers  the  elevators  in  an  old-fash- 
ioned hotel  are  a  joy  forever.  There  is  no  ele- 
vator-boy. A  pushed  button  summons  the  creak- 
ing, creeping  cage  to  the  floor  on  which  you 
stand,  you  enter,  you  press  another  button  and 
release  it,  then  after  a  long  interval  during  which 
the  ascender  seems  to  have  been  getting  its  forces, 

62 


His  Daughter 

it  coughs,  it  trembles,  and  it  ascends,  very  slowly 
it  ascends.  The  Grandisons'  rooms  were  on  the 
third  floor. 

The  Countess  de  Sejour  had  behind  her  two 
hundred  years  of  American  ancestry.  She  had 
therefore  the  American  woman's  gift  of  adapta- 
bility raised  to  the  nth  power,  and  having  married 
a  Frenchman  she  had  succeeded  in  turning  her- 
self into  a  Frenchwoman. 

Unlike  Dayton,  she  was  dark;  her  face  was 
charming  rather  than  beautiful,  and,  although  she 
belonged  to  the  ultra-fashionable  hunting-set  and 
loved  pleasure,  she  considered  her  husband's 
mother,  her  husband,  her  children,  and  her  home 
of  the  first  importance.  The  French  have  no 
word  for  "home,"  but  in  proportion  to  the  popu- 
lation there  are  perhaps  more  real  homes  in 
France  than  in  any  other  country. 

The  home  of  the  De  Sejours  in  the  Rue  Barbet 
de  Jouy  was  a  typical  home  of  a  fashionable  and 
well-to-do  family. 

Dayton  pushed  a  bell  in  a  wall  and  a  little 
iron-studded  door,  to  the  right  of  iron-studded 
double  doors  tall  enough  and  broad  enough  for  the 
passage  of  horses  and  motors,  clicked  and  stood 
ajar.  He  pushed  it  wide  open  and  stepped  over 

63 


His  Daughter 

a  high  sill  into  an  ample  courtyard  of  cobble- 
stones; to  the  right  was  a  low  building  for  various 
offices,  beginning  with  the  porter's  lodge;  to  his 
left  was  a  similar  building  that  had  been  made 
over  into  an  up-to-date  garage.  In  front  of  this 
was  a  Rolls-Royce  being  gone  over  with  chamois 
and  a  Ford  touring-car  being  washed. 

Directly  across  the  courtyard  the  house  door 
at  the  top  of  four  broad  steps,  protected  by  a 
marquise  of  glass  and  iron,  stood  open,  and 
the  De  Sejours'  third  or  fourth  man  stood  in 
the  opening.  Upon  recognizing  a  member  of 
the  family  he  permitted  himself  to  smile,  not 
with  familiarity  but  with  friendliness  and  plea- 
sure. 

"Bon  jour,  mon  ami.    Madame  est  chez  elle  ?" 

Madame  had  left  word  that  she  was  to  be  found 
in  the  garden. 

Dayton  could  never 'pass  from  the  front  door 
to  the  garden  door  of  his  sister's  house  without 
being  conscious  of  the  just  and  exquisite  propor- 
tions of  the  entrance-hall,  the  grand  staircase,  and 
the  reception-room.  Stripped  of  their  furnish- 
ings, and  even  of  their  lovely  panellings,  these 
spaces  must  still  have  been  beautiful.  A  foot 
added  here  or  there  and  the  divinity  of  their  pro- 
portions, their  largeness  and  graciousness,  must 

64 


His  Daughter 

have  sunk  into  a  very  typical  Fifth  Avenue  in- 
significance. 

The  French  do  not  overburden  their  houses 
with  accumulated  purchases.  And  at  first  sight 
the  De  Sejours'  reception-room  might  have  seemed 
a  little  stiff  and  bare.  The  Louis  XV  chairs  and 
sofas  didn't  look  like  comfortable  machines  to 
sit  in;  but  they  were.  There  were  no  books  scat- 
tered about,  no  disordered  ranks  of  signed  photo- 
graphs, no  tables  covered  with  armies  of  mean- 
ingless knickknacks  requiring  much  dusting  and 
mending.  There  weren't  many  things  in  the 
room,  but  each  thing  was  in  a  place  that  seemed 
to  have  been  especially  designed  for  it.  Twenty 
or  thirty  people,  sipping  cups  of  coffee,  could 
move  about  in  it  at  ease  without  having  the  fur- 
niture get  in  their  way,  or  being  nervous  about 
unbalanced  porcelains  and  the  far-reaching  lamp- 
shades of  fragile  lamps. 

Gradually  the  feeling  that  this  was  not  a  show- 
room, but  a  room  which  had  been  much  lived  in, 
stole  over  one.  The  charming  and  priceless  man- 
tel-clock with  the  priceless  and  charming  urns 
that  flanked  it  had  stood  upon  precisely  the  same 
spots  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years.  A  hundred 
and  fifty  years  of  polite  wear  and  tear  had  not 
made  it  necessary  to  change  the  tapestry  which 

65 


His  Daughter 

covered  the  chairs  and  sofas.  It  was  from  this 
room  that  the  Revolutionary  De  Sejour  had 
started  on  that  cold  and  rainy  journey  which 
led  to  the  guillotine  in  the  great  square  by  the 
river. 

The  garden,  perhaps  fifty  yards  square,  was 
surrounded  by  tall  stone  walls  drenched  with  dark 
English  ivy.  There  was  a  simple  design  of  broad 
gravel  paths,  flower-beds  of  scarlet  and  bright 
green,  and  the  usual  iron  table  and  iron  chairs 
which  are  inseparable  from  Paris  gardens. 

Bareheaded,  slender,  dressed  very  severely  in 
black,  a  string  of  great  pearls  just  showing  where 
the  dress  was  open  at  the  throat,  the  Countess  de 
Sejour,  and  Mouche,  her  fox-terrier,  were  alone. 
The  countess  had  a  plate  of  lump  sugar  on  the 
table  before  her,  and  she  was  engaged  in  killing 
two  birds  with  one  stone:  that  is,  she  was  teach- 
ing Mouche  to  speak  and  spoiling  his  digestion 
at  the  same  time. 

She  smiled  gayly  at  her  brother  and  motioned 
him  to  a  seat  beside  her. 

"They  are  charming,"  she  said,  "and  I  am 
glad  that  I  called.  Also  I  have  placed  them. 
She  was  a  Berling,  one  of  the  Hoboken  Berlings, 
and  the  father  used  to  be  a  great  friend  of  Austin 
Mott's;  they  used  to  hunt  and  fish  together.  I 

66 


His  Daughter 

am  infatuated  with  Dorothy.  And  it  goes  with- 
out saying  that  you  are.  But  I  couldn't  believe 
my  ears  when  she  told  me  that  she  was  not  yet 
sixteen.  I  should  have  guessed  eighteen  at  the 
least.  I  hope  you  haven't  been  making  love  to 
her.  I  shouldn't  blame  you,  of  course,  and  they 
have  plenty  of  money." 

"It's  funny  about  you,"  said  Dayton.  "You're 
not  in  the  least  sordid,  and  your  husband  takes 
about  as  much  interest  in  money  as  I  do  in  Brus- 
sels sprouts,  but  you  are  always  talking  money 
and  advising  me  to  put  beauty  and  amiability 
last  and  to  feather  my  nest  first." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  ask  them  to  luncheon? 
Who  shall  I  have  to  meet  them  ?  Do  they  lean 
to  the  army  or  the  church  ?" 

"'Allo,  Fred  !"  The  Comte  de  Sejour  appeared 
lightly  descending  the  steps  into  the  garden.  He 
wore  white  tennis  shoes,  white  flannel  trousers, 
and  a  thick  white  sweater.  His  sunburnt  face  was 
streaming  with  perspiration. 

"I  heard  you  come  in,"  he  said,  "but  I  was 
having  a  grand  assault  of  arms  with  the  fencing- 
master,  and  couldn't  have  suffered  an  interrup- 
tion even  by  the  President  of  the  Republic.  How 
are  you?" 

He  shook  hands  with  Dayton  and  straddled  a 
67 


His  Daughter 

chair,  facing  the  back,  upon  which  he  crossed  his 
arms. 

"Emily,"  he  said,  "has  returned  from  the 
Hotel  Chatham  with  most  interesting  reports. 
My  dear  friend,  she  reports  that  the  young  lady 
in  whom  you  interest  yourself  is  ravishing.  The 
affair  is  serious  ?" 

"Miss  Grandison,"  said  Emily  de  Sejour,  "is 
only  fifteen." 

Claude  de  Sejour  simply  kissed  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  and  gazed  at  the  empyrean.  Then  he 
turned  to  his  wife. 

"And  how  old  were  you,"  he  said,  "when  I 
visited  New  York  en  route  for  Jackson's  Hole,  and 
never  got  to  Jackson's  Hole  at  all  ?" 

"I  was  nearly  seventeen,"  she  said.  "A  whole 
year  older.  A  year  later  we  were  married,  and 
this  boy  just  in  long  trousers  for  the  first  time. 
It  was  different  with  us,"^,  said  the  countess. 
"You  had  something  to  marry  on.  Frederick  has 
his  way  to  make." 

"But  Miss  Grandison  will  be  rich  ?" 

"Look  here,"  interrupted  Dayton,  "let  me  do 
my  own  marrying,  won't  you?" 

"First  I  will  see  this  beautiful  Miss  Dorothy 
for  myself." 

"Seriously,"  said  the  countess,  "Fred  ought 
68 


His  Daughter 

not  to  think  of  marriage  for  years  and  years.  He 
ought " 

"He  ought  first  to  sow  his  wild  oats." 

"What  satanic  advice!'*  exclaimed  Dayton. 

"  Indeed  not,"  said  De  Sejour  gravely.  "  Sooner 
or  later  the  average  man  sows  his  wild  oats.  And 
it  is  far  kinder,  far  more  civilized,  to  sow  them 
before  marriage  rather  than  after." 

"But  I'm  hoping,"  said  Dayton,  "that  I'm  not 
an  average  man.  I  don't  believe  for  a  minute 
that  wild  oats  are  either  profitable  or  necessary." 

"They  are  neither,  perhaps,"  said  his  brother- 
in-law,  "but  in  Europe  we  suspect  the  man  who 
does  not  sow  his  of  being  abnormal.  At  least, 
the  average  man  suffers  sooner  or  later  from  im- 
perious impulses,  which  if  yielded  to  are  of  less 
consequence  surely  when  they  do  not  involve  the 
happiness  of  some  one  else." 

"I'm  familiar  with  the  continental  idea,"  said 
Dayton,  "but  I  don't  believe  in  it." 

De  Sejour  gave  a  faint  shrug.  "I  must  get 
into  my  tub,"  he  announced,  and  waved  them  a 
farewell. 

Dayton  lingered  for  a  few  moments. 

"There's  a  lot  in  what  Claude  says,"  said  the 
countess. 

"Just  because  he  had  his  fling  before  settling 
69 


His  Daughter 

down  is  no  reason  why  a  man  with  different  ideals 
shouldn't  settle  down  without  having  any  fling 
at  all." 

The  countess  sighed.  "It  is  far  better,"  she 
said,  "that  a  husband  should  come  to  his  bride 
with  confessions  than  to  the  mother  of  his  chil- 
dren." 

"Far  better,"  agreed  Dayton,  "that  he  shouldn't 
have  any  confessions  to  make  to  either  of  them." 

It  is  true  that  Dayton  and  Dorothy  Grandison 
were  not  allowed  to  do  as  they  pleased — but  Mrs. 
Grandison  was  a  very  liberal  and  a  somewhat  in- 
dolent chaperon.  Her  idea  of  sightseeing  was  to 
sit  still  and  wait  until  the  young  people  returned 
and  told  her  what  she  really  ought  to  have  seen. 
In  the  Louvre,  for  instance,  she  would  sit  in  front 
of  some  auburn  and  muscular  composition  of 
Rubens  while  the  young  people  "did"  the  Gal- 
lery of  Apollo,  or  she  would  sit  in  the  cool  of  Notre 
Dame  while  they  climbed  one  of  the  towers,  or 
recline  really  at  ease  in  her  motor  while  they 
ransacked  the  book-stalls  along  the  Quai  Voltaire. 
And  very  often  she  retired  to  her  room  and  rested 
from  the  fatigue  of  sightseeing  while  Dorothy  gave 
Dayton  tea  and  pleasant  little  cakes  in  the  parlor. 

But  in  the  mornings,  while  the  Grandisons  were 
70  I 


His  Daughter 

busy  with   shopping   and   dressmaking,    Dayton 
worked  hard. 

One  morning,  toward  the  end  of  the  Grandisons* 
stay  in  Paris,  he  was  surprised  and  a  little  troubled 
at  receiving  a  note  from  Mrs.  Grandison: 

MY  DEAR  FRED:  , 

May  I  come  up  ?  Dorothy  is  at  the  dressmaker's, 
and  there  is  something  that  I  wish  very  much  to  talk 
over  with  you. 

In  haste, 

MARY  GRANDISON. 

t  He  dashed  down  the  one  flight  of  stairs  to  the 
street  and,  somewhat  embarrassed  and  ill  at  ease, 
helped  Mrs.  Grandison  from  her  motor.  But 
there  was  nothing  ill  at  ease  about  Mrs.  Grandi- 
son. She  was  in  one  of  her  most  calm  and  cheer- 
ful moods. 

"If  I  am  breaking  up  work,"  she  said,  "please 
forgive  me.  I  don't  do  it  often,  do  I  ?  Dorothy 
wants  to  burst  in  on  you  every  morning  to  see 
what  you  are  doing,  but  I  won't  let  her." 

Here,  for  they  were  nearly  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  her  breath  failed  her.  Dayton  pushed 
open  the  door  of  his  studio  and  they  went  in. 

"I  love  to  visit  studios,"  said  Mrs.  Grandison, 
who  had  recovered  her  breathing  powers,  "but 


His  Daughter 

that  isn't  why  I  am  visiting  yours.  You'll  not 
mind  if  I'm  abrupt  ?" 

Dayton  murmured,  "Of  course  not,"  and  looked 
at  her  expectantly.  As  she  did  not  at  once  go  on 
with  what  she  had  come  to  say,  he  begged  her  to 
sit  down  and  rest.  But  she  shook  her  head,  and 
then,  smiling  kindly,  if  a  little  tremulously  upon 
the  young  man,  she  began  to  state  her  errand. 

"Primarily,"  she  said,  "it's  all  my  fault.  I 
should  have  realized  that  Dorothy  has  been 
thrown  so  constantly  with  older  people  that  she 
isn't  really  the  child  that  I  am  always  imagining 
she  is.  And  I  don't  blame  you,  either.  I  blame 
myself  only.  But  placing  the  blame  where  it  be- 
longs does  not  make  my  position  any  easier.  I 
have  not  come  here  to  find  fault  with  you,  my 
dear  boy,  but  to  ask  for  your  co-operation  and  ad- 
vice. What  do  you  think  we  had  better  do  ?" 

"I  hoped,"  said  Dayton,  reddening  but  looking 
very  manly  and  honest,  "that  you  weren't  going 
to  find  out  about  Dorothy  and  me  until  she  was 
older,  and  I  had  something  more  tangible  than 
ambition  to  offer  her.  On  the  face  of  it,  grown 
men  don't  fall  in  love  with  girls  as  young  as  Doro- 
thy. At  first  I  said  to  myself,  'This  is  the  kind  of 
girl  I  might  fall  in  love  with  if  we  belonged  to 
the  same  generation,'  and  the  next  thing  I  knew 

72 


His  Daughter 

was — well,  we  did  belong  to  the  same  generation, 
and  the  thing  had  happened  to  us.  I  know  what 
you  are  thinking — that  I  am  trying  to  excuse 
myself,  and  so  I  am  in  a  way;  but,  as  you  say, 
placing  the  blame  is  of  no  value." 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Mrs.  Grandison,  "that 
for  a  girl  of  eighteen  or  nineteen  to  care  for  the 
same  man  she  cared  for  at  fifteen  is  rather  con- 
trary to  human  experience  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Dayton,  "but  then  Dorothy  is 
—Dorothy." 

"And  yet  maybe  even  our  wonderful  Doro- 
thy isn't  an  exception,"  smiled  Mrs.  Grandison. 
"Frankly,  don't  you  think  that  she  ought  to  have 
the  same  chance  that  other  girls  of  her  position 
have?" 

"I  do,"  said  Dayton,  "indeed  I  do.  And  I've 
told  her  so  dozens  of  times." 

"She ought  to  finish  growing  up,  to  be  presented 
to  society — to  have  a  chance — well,  to  find  out  if 
you  are  the  only  man  in  the  world  for  her,  or  if 
there  is  another.  And  she  ought  to  feel  that  she 
is  free  to  find  this  out.  She  is  very  loyal.  We 
both  know  that.  She  will  keep  her  promise  to 
you  even  if  in  the  meantime  she  should  find  that 
she  had  been  mistaken  in  making  any  such  prom- 
ise." 

73 


His  Daughter 

"I  haven't  asked  for  any  promises,  Mrs. 
Grandison." 

"Nor  made  any,  I  dare  say.  But  you  know 
what  I  mean.  And  I  think  there  should  be  a 
very  definite  understanding  between  you  two  that 
there  should  be  no  definite  bond  between  you 
which,  if  broken  by  either  of  you,  could  cause  the 
other  to  feel  ill  used." 

"People  can  say  that  there  is  no  bond,"  ob- 
jected Dayton,  "but  if  there  is  a  bond?  Saying 
that  I  am  bound  to  do  so-and-so  isn't  any  differ- 
ent from  feeling  that  I  am  bound  to  do  so-and-so." 

"  It  is  different.  If  you  say  that  you  are  bound 
to  do  so-and-so,  why,  so-and-so  is  what  you  will 
do  when  the  time  comes.  But  if  the  obligation 
is  only  one  of  feeling — why,  then,  the  feeling  hav- 
ing changed,  it  is  no  longer  an  obligation.  Men 
used  to  feel  that  they  were  bound  by  the  laws  of 
the  duello.  They  no  longer  feel  so,  and  in  conse- 
quence are  no  longer  bound.  I  think  that  you 
and  Dorothy  ought  to  say  that  what  is  between 
you  is  not  a  definite,  spoken  engagement,  but  just 
a  feeling,  an  inclination,  which  may  not  bring 
you  ultimately  together." 

Secretly  Dayton  agreed  with  her,  but  he  tem- 
porized. 

"Have  you  talked  with  Dorothy  ?" 

"We  had  it  out  last  night,"  said  Mrs.  Grandi- 
74 


His  Daughter 

son,  "after  you  had  gone.  But  it's  not  a  thing 
which  a  nineteenth-century  parent  can  or  ought 
to  insist  on.  Still,  if  you  can't  think  wisely  for 
Dorothy  now,  I  can't  have  much  hope  of  your 
thinking  wisely  for  her  in  the  future.  Her  will 
is  in  your  hands.  ...  If  this  had  happened  to 
me  when  I  was  a  girl  my  parents  would  have  for- 
bidden any  intercourse  or  interchange  of  letters 
until  I  was  old  enough  to  know  my  own  mind, 
and  they  would  have  had  their  way.  But  times 
have  changed.  Modern  parents  are  wiser  and 
more  selfish.  I  should  be  a  fool  to  alienate  the 
affection  that  I  might  hope  for  in  my  old  age  from 
my  daughter  and  my  son-in-law.  If  my  husband 
and  I  should  learn  that  you  and  Dorothy  had 
been  secretly  married,  we  would  tell  the  world 
and  try  to  make  you  believe  that  it  was  the  very 
thing  we  most  wanted.  We  would  do  that  on 
the  one  chance  in  millions  that  so  precocious  and 
unconventional  a  marriage  might  turn  out  a  suc- 
cess. We  would  not  wish  to  be  shut  out  from 
our  share  in  that  success,  and  we  would  do  every- 
thing we  could  to  help  toward  it." 

"What  a  wonderful  person  you  are !"  exclaimed 
Dayton. 

"What,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  you  will  do  ?" 
"I'd  like  first  to  talk  it  over  with  Dorothy." 
"Very  well;  but  remember  that  the  decision  is 
75 


His  Daughter 

with  you.  You  are  the  older  and  the  wiser. 
Whatever  she  may  be  a  year  from  now,  Dorothy 
at  this  moment  is  so  crazy  about  you  that  you 
could  make  her  think  black  was  white." 

"Will  she  know  that  you  have  been  talking 
with  me?" 

"Why  not  ?  That's  an  honest  basis  to  go  on. 
Come  to  lunch  and  take  her  for  a  drive  afterward. 
It's  a  lovely  day.  And  for  once  I'll  waive  the 
conventions.  ...  I  trust  you  just  as  Dorothy 
does." 

As  he  escorted  her  down  the  stairs,  Dayton 
thought  for  the  first  time  that  she  looked  old  and 
care-worn.  He  felt  in  those  moments  an  immense 
pity  for  her.  Though  she  had  borne  herself  with 
great  gallantry,  some  hint  of  what  her  real  anxie- 
ties must  be  pierced  him  with  remorse. 

"Don't  think,"  he  said,  "that  I  don't  know  how 
brave  and  kind  and  friendly  you've  been." 

"Nonsense!"  she  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  her 
eyes  and  a  flash  of  white  teeth. 

"And,"  he  faltered,  "it  will  be  a  black  day  for 
me  if  I  ever  betray  your  trust  in  me." 

As  accurately  as  he  could  remember  he  told 
Dorothy  what  her  mother  had  said. 

"Is  that  what  you  think,  too?"  she  asked. 
76 


His  Daughter 

"I  think  you  should  feel — well,  that  if  some 
man  came  along  and  you  liked  him  better  than 
you  do  me  ..." 

"Better  than  I  like  you  ?" 

"Dorothy,  dear,  I  mean  the  way  you  like  me, 
supposing  that  you'd  stopped  liking  me  that  way. 
...  I  think  you  should  feel  free  to  like  him  and 
not  as  if  you  were  committing  a  crime." 

"But  if  we  love  each  other?"  The  fine,  brave 
eyes  brightened  with  tears. 

"As  long  as  we  love  each  other  nothing  that 
we  can  say  will  alter  the  fact  that  we  are  bound 
to  each  other,  so  doing  what  your  mother  wishes 
isn't  very  serious  and  tragic,  is  it  ?" 

"Tell  me  again  what  she  does  wish." 

"Why,  I'm  to  say  to  you  that  if  you  should 
stop  loving  me,  you  must  feel  absolutely  free  to 
love  somebody  else." 

"And  I'm  to  say  the  same  to  you  ?" 

"It's  just  a  matter  of  form,"  he  said.  "After 
all,  you  are  just  a  kid,  aren't  you  ?  Your  mother 
wants  you  to  have  the  same  chances  that  you 
would  have  had  if  you  and  I  had  never  met.  She 
wants  you  to  come  out,  by  and  by,  and  have  your 
fling,  and  dance  all  night,  and  make  friends,  and 
be  loved  by  all  the  gentlemen,  and  I  think  .  .  . 
I  think  she's  right." 

77  ' 


His  Daughter 

"  But  where  will  you  be  when  I  come  out,  and 
until  I  do?" 

"The  idea  is  for  me  to  keep  out  of  the  way, 
I  suppose,"  he  said  dismally.  "But  surely  after 
a  year  or  so,  if  you  still  feel  the  way  you  do  now, 
your  mother — they — would  be  willing  to  have  me 
come  around.  .  .  .  It's  a  sort  of  probation. 
We're  not  disapproved  of  or  threatened  or  any- 
thing like  that.  We're  simply  asked  to  acknowl- 
edge what  is  the  truth:  that  you  are  unusually 
young.  And  we  are  asked  to  look  at  our  case 
from  an  outsider's  point  of  view  and  decide  on 
the  sensible  thing  to  do." 

Their  taxi  turned  slowly  into  one  of  those  nar- 
row and  winding  roads  through  natural  woods 
which  are  so  characteristic  of  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne. The  trees  were  all  ashimmer  with  the 
vivacious  greens  of  early  spring  and  there  was  a 
merry  twittering  of  birds. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Dorothy,  a  little  sullenly,  as 
if  she  had  been  argued  into  something  against  her 
will,  "that  from  an  outsider's  point  of  view 
mamma  is  right." 

Dayton  nodded  sagely.  "And  she  leaves  every- 
thing to  us,"  he  said. 

"And  I,"  said  Dorothy,  "leave  everything  to 
you." 

78 


His  Daughter 

After  a  considerable  silence,  Dayton  put  his 
arm  around  her,  and  instantly  she  leaned  against 
him.  Then  very  tenderly  he  said: 

"I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul." 

"And  I,"  she  said,  "love  you  with  my  whole 
heart  and  soul." 

Then  he  kissed  her.  And  then  he  said,  his 
voice  husky: 

"But  we  are  not  engaged,  my  own  dear.  Oh, 
no,  indeed  we  are  not.  You  have  made  me  no 
promise  ...  no  promise  at  all.  And  you  are 
going  back  home  and  I'm  going  to  stay  on  here 
for  about  a  year,  so's  not  to  be  always  popping 
up  when  I'm  not  wanted.  And  we  are  going  to 
write  to  each  other;  but  not  every  day,  only  once 
in  a  while  like  friends,  not  like  lovers,  just  to  say 
how  we  are  and  what  we  are  doing.  And  you 
mustn't  try  to  stop  loving  me  any  more  than  you 
must  try  to  keep  on  loving  me.  You  must  just 
try  to  keep  on  going  as  if  I'd  never  happened,  and 
then,  bimeby — some  day — all  will  be  well  with  us 
again." 

She  leaned  closer  to  him,  and  his  arm  tightened 
about  her.  And  then  she  turned  up  her  face  to 
his,  tears  in  the  eyes  and  a  smile  on  the  mouth, 
and  said: 

"Don't  let's  stop  being  engaged  until  we  are 
out  of  this  wood." 

79 


His  Daughter 

And  there  was  something  at  once  so  touching 
and  gallant  in  her  voice  that  tears  came  into 
Dayton's  eyes,  and  almost  he  wished  then  and 
there  to  die  while  heroically  defending  her  from 
some  evil  or  other.  Mingled  with  his  love  for  her 
was  an  even  tenderer  and  more  exalted  feeling. 
He  felt  a  little  as  if  she  were  his  daughter. 

Paris  was  empty.  It  was  as  empty  as  are  those 
little  silk  or  satin  jewel-boxes  which  abound  in 
the  upper  drawers  of  bureaus,  and  from  which 
the  jewel  has  been  taken. 

Dorothy  Grandison  had  gone  home  to  America. 

Dorothy  Grandison  had  gone  home  to  America, 
and  Paris  was  empty. 

It  remained  empty  for  about  a  week.  Dayton 
kept  telling  himself  how  much  he  loved  Dorothy 
and  how  necessary  to  his  happiness  was  her  daily 
nearness;  but  what  he  told  himself  along  these 
lines  was  not  the  whole  truth.  In  spite  of  his 
very  natural  wish  to  be  the  faithfulest  and  loneli- 
est lover  in  the  world's  history,  the  empty  city 
of  Paris  began  to  fill  up  with  color  and  beauty 
and  charm,  with  voices  and  faces. 

His  was  not  the  kind  of  heart  which,  fed  upon 
absence,  grows  fonder  and  fonder.  He  lived  a 
crowded  life  in  which,  by  slow  stages,  the  photo- 

80 


His  Daughter 

graphs  of  Dorothy  which  he  had  upon  his  dress- 
ing-table came  to  play  a  greater  part  than  his 
memories  of  her.  And  at  last,  not  without  self- 
contempt,  he  came  to  realize  this.  He  had  not 
tired  of  her,  and  if  she  had  been  present  he  must 
still  have  been .  in  love  with  her.  What  was 
wrong,  then  ?  Only  this — that  he  had  never  loved 
her  in  the  same  way  that  she  loved  him.  She  had 
driven  nothing  out  of  him  and  refilled  the  vacuum 
with  herself. 

But  where  an  individual  had  failed  the  sex  of 
that  individual  had  succeeded.  Though  a  par- 
ticular romance  had  not  enmeshed  Dayton  eter- 
nally, romance  herself  had  him  thoroughly  in  her 
net.  He  was,  in  short,  tremendously  sentimental. 

May  passed  and  June.  The  thermometer 
climbed  steadily.  There  were  breathless  days 
reeking  of  hot  asphalt.  The  outlines  of  buildings 
and  monuments  were  softened  by  a  kind  of  danc- 
ing, gyrating  aura.  The  children  who  played  in 
the  Luxembourg  Gardens  looked  pale  and  hollow- 
cheeked.  The  morning  sun  beat  upon  the  flat 
roof  of  Dayton's  studio  and  turned  his  working- 
hours  into  a  kind  of  unprogressive  nightmare. 

The  tools  of  the  various  crafts  which  he  was 
attempting  to  master  slipped  in  his  fingers.  Wher- 
ever his  hand  rested  there  remained  a  spot  dark 
with  moisture.  It  was  like  trying  to  work  in  the 

81 


His  Daughter 

hot  room  of  a  Turkish  bath.  No  wonder  he  had 
rented  that  studio  cheaply. 

His  progress  until  now,  especially  in  modelling, 
had  been  steady  and  stimulating.  But  he  had 
come  to  that  pass — a  pass  to  which  all  artists  are 
subjected  now  and  then — when  his  hands  seemed 
to  be  all  thumbs  and  his  brain  no  more  capable 
of  concentration  than  a  dish  of  hot  oatmeal. 

Everything  went  wrong.  Models,  lured  by  the 
thought  of  a  cool  day  in  the  country,  either  sent 
word  that  their  grandmothers  were  suddenly  dead 
or  simply  did  not  keep  their  appointments  at  all. 
His  drawing-master  departed  suddenly  for  the 
Brittany  coast,  and  the  organist  who  was  teaching 
him  the  elements  of  harmony  left  as  suddenly  for 
a  good  cooling  off  in  the  Austrian  Tyrol. 

For  their  children's  sakes  the  De  Sejours  had 
left  Paris  at  the  first  blast  of  the  July  heat,  and 
Dayton  was  strongly  tempted  to  follow  them  into 
the  country.  Only  his  innate  stubbornness  pre- 
vented. He  had  announced  more  than  once  that 
he  would  stick  to  his  last  all  summer,  weather  or 
no  weather,  and  he  felt  that  any  backing  down 
would  be  an  abject  confession  of  weak-mindedness. 

One  afternoon  about  three  o'clock  the  unwink- 
ing, staring  heavens  became  suddenly  overcast, 

82 


His  Daughter 

and  the  faint,  far-off  mutterings  of  thunder  were 
heard.  The  storm  did  not  come  up  quickly,  but 
slowly  and  with  dignity,  and  with  great  thorough- 
ness. The  streets  of  Paris  and  the  parks  became 
suddenly  alive  with  people  hurrying  for  shelter, 
and  since  his  working  light  was  gone  Dayton 
seated  himself  by  an  open  window  to  see  the  storm 
break  upon  a  populace  that,  confident  in  the  prom- 
ise of  a  glaring  noon,  had  sallied  forth  without 
umbrellas  or  rain-coats. 

After  an  interval  of  livid  purple  darkness  great 
drops  of  water  began  to  fall;  so  big  were  these 
drops  that  it  seemed  to  Dayton  as  if  each  one 
would  have  half-filled  a  coffee-cup.  He  put  out 
his  hand  and  one,  icy  cold,  splashed  upon  it.  He 
laughed  aloud;  the  tension  under  which  he  had 
been  living  was  instantly  relieved. 

Whirling  dust  and  bits  of  paper  rose  in  a  column 
and  rushed  along  the  sidewalks.  The  wind  roared 
and  whistled,  and  then,  literally  with  a  crash,  rain 
fell  and  instantly  the  whole  street  was  awash, 
and  the  people  who  remained  for  a  few  seconds 
before  getting  shelter  under  the  deep  archways  of 
doors  and  gates  were  wet  to  the  skin. 

A  man,  a  stout  woman,  a  young  woman,  and 
two  small  boys  crowded  into  the  narrow  archway 
that  was  directly  below  Dayton's  window.  There 

83 


His  Daughter 

was  a  simple  smartness  about  the  top  of  the 
young  woman's  hat  that  attracted  him.  He  won- 
dered what  her  face  was  like. 

For  an  hour  the  man,  the  stout  woman,  the 
young  woman,  and  the  two  small  boys  were  held 
prisoners  by  the  wall  of  rain.  Then,  as  this  grew 
thinner,  one  of  the  small  boys  emerged  as  sud- 
denly from  the  archway  as  if  he  had  been  shot 
out  of  a  gun,  and,  shielding  his  head  with  his 
left  forearm,  and  further  seeking  to  save  himself 
from  a  wetting  by  dodging  and  twisting,  ran  furi- 
ously round  the  nearest  corner  and  disappeared. 
Soon  after  the  other  small  boy  departed.  His 
method  was  all  his  own;  he  made  himself  as 
small  as  possible  and  moved  very  cautiously,  as  if 
he  were  afraid  of  waking  the  baby.  Perhaps  he 
thought  that  if  the  rain  didn't  see  him  or  hear  him 
it  wouldn't  wet  him. 

The  sky  by  now  was  very  much  brighter,  and 
the  rain  no  heavier  than  an  April  shower.  But 
what  there  was  of  it,  in  spite  of  occasional  flashes 
of  sunlight,  persisted.  The  stout  woman  and  the 
man  left  at  the  same  time,  but  in  opposite  direc- 
tions. And  there  remained  in  the  shelter  of  the 
archway  only  the  young  woman. 

The  storm  being  no  longer  interesting,  various 
speculations  concerning  her  began  to  occupy 

84 


His  Daughter 

Dayton's  mind,  and,  having  nothing  to  go  on  but 
the  top  of  her  hat,  he  concluded  that  she  was  at- 
tractive. He  wished  that  she  would  come  out 
from  under  the  archway  so  that  he  could  have 
another  look  at  her.  But  although  the  rain  was 
now  no  more  than  a  sprinkle  she  remained  under 
shelter. 

"She  must  hate  water  like  a  hen,"  thought 
Dayton;  "or  maybe  it's  her  best  hat." 

He  leaned  far  out  of  the  window,  but  could 
see  only  the  toe  of  her  right  shoe.  Her  fear  of 
being  even  lightly  sprinkled  touched  his  sense  of 
humor,  and  it  was  not  until  the  storm  which  had 
swept  over  Paris  began  to  return  and  the  rain  to 
fall  more  briskly  that  he  began  to  feel  sorry  for  her. 

Acting  upon  a  sudden  thought,  he  took  his 
umbrella,  ran  lightly  down  the  stairs  to  the  en- 
trance-hall, and  opened  the  front  door.  She  turned 
toward  him  and  he  recognized  the  red-haired  girl 
who  sold  newspapers  near  the  Church  of  St.  Ger- 
main des  Pres.  The  recognition  was  mutual.  It 
was  almost  as  if  they  were  old  friends.  "Oh!" 
they  said,  "it's  you." 

Then  a  lameness,  to  which  it  was  frequently 
a  victim,  a  kind  of  general  rheumatism,  suddenly 
crippled  Dayton's  French.  And  he  said  "I — 

you — the  rain — for  you — the  umbrella " 

85 


His  Daughter 

"How  kind  you  are!"  said  the  girl.  But  she 
looked  doubtfully  at  the  umbrella  and  still  more 
doubtfully  at  the  weather. 

"I  was  to  meet  some  friends,"  she  said;  "we 
were  going  down  the  river  for  dinner,  and — well, 
you  see  I  wanted  to  look  nice,  and  a  dressmaker 
who  is  a  friend  of  mine  loaned  me  this  pretty  dress. 
If  it  got  spoiled  I'd  have  to  pay  for  it,  and  I  cant." 

Having  told  him  her  troubles  frankly,  she 
smiled  them  away.  She  was  very  pretty  when 
she  smiled. 

"If  I  got  you  a  cab " 

But  she  shook  her  head  firmly.  Evidently  the 
price  of  that  was  also  beyond  her;  and  somehow 
Dayton  did  not  like  to  offer  to  pay  the  fare  for 
her. 

"It  can't  rain  forever,"  she  said. 

Dayton  had  recovered  from  his  lingual  rheu- 
matics. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  he  said;  "it's  falling  harder  all 
the  time.  At  least  come  into  the  hall  and  sit 
down.  Or  better,  if  you  don't  mind,  come  up  to 
my  studio  and  I'll  give  you  a  cup  of  tea,  or  choco- 
late, if  you'd  rather." 

"Shall  I?"  she  said,  smiled,  hesitated,  looked 
him  suddenly  in  the  face,  and  said  gravely :  ''Thank 
you.  How  kind  you  are!" 

86 


His  Daughter 

"It  isn't  much  of  a  studio,"  he  explained;  "it's 
rather  bare,  but  there's  one  really  comfortable 
chair  and  you've  been  standing  so  long  you'll 
like  that." 

He  threw  open  the  door  of  his  studio  and  re- 
peated: "It  isn't  much  of  a  studio." 

Then — for  her  presence  really  embarrassed  him 
— he  began  to  make  a  great  to-do  with  prepara- 
tions for  tea. 

"I'm  glad  you  chose  my  door  for  a  shelter  in- 
stead of  somebody  else's,"  he  said. 

"So  am  I,"  said  she.  "This  chair  is  very  com- 
fortable." 

"So  that's  why  you  are  glad !"  He  lighted  the 
lamp  under  the  teakettle  and  turned  his  smiling 
face  toward  her. 

"You  and  I,"  he  said,  "are  old  friends.  Don't 
you  think  we  ought  to  know  each  other's  names  ? 
Mine's  Dayton — Frederick  Dayton." 

"Mine,"  she  said,  "is  Claire— Claire  D^Avril." 

"That's  a  lovely  name!"  exclaimed  Dayton. 
"  Claire  D'Avril!" 

"It's  a  little  theatrical,  don't  you  think?" 

But  he  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said,  "it 
isn't.  It's  what  you  just  naturally  would  be 
called."  And  his  attention  became  riveted  on 
the  tea-caddy,  the  lid  of  which  had  jammed. 

87 


His  Daughter 

"It's  raining  as  hard  as  ever,"  she  said. 

"Good!"  said  Dayton.  "It  prolongs  this  ex- 
tremely pleasant  visit.  Are  your  feet  wet  ?"  She 
shook  her  head. 

"Sure?" 

"A  little  splashed,  but  not  wet.'* 

Her  presence  no  longer  embarrassed  him.  It 
began  to  seem  quite  natural  that  she  should  be 
sitting  in  his  big  chair,  chin  on  hand,  watching 
him  make  tea.  Her  presence  had  become  ex- 
tremely agreeable  to  him.  There  was  something 
very  wholesome  and  direct  about  her.  And  when 
she  smiled  she  was  really  pretty. 

"The  other  day,"  he  said  suddenly,  "you 
laughed  at  me — you  and  your  friend,  the  small 
boy.  Why  was  that  ?" 

She  laughed  at  him  again.  "It  was  only  to 
make  you  look  round.  He  said:  *  Laugh  and  he'll 
look  round.'  And  we  laughed  and  you  did,  and 
that  made  us  laugh  still  more." 

"Why  did  you  want  me  to  turn  round  ?" 

"My  small  friend  said  you  were  cross-eyed, 
and  I  said  you  weren't.  And  you  aren't." 

Rested  and  stimulated  by  two  cups  of  indiffer- 
ent but  strong  tea,  Claire  D'Avril,  under  Dayton's 
guidance,  which  consisted  very  largely  of  explana- 


His  Daughter 

tion  and  apologies,  made  a  tour  of  inspection. 
She  made  him  show  her  all  his  drawings  and  all 
his  modellings.  She  even  gave  a  grave  and  sweet 
attention  to  a  choral  which  he  had  written  (hold- 
ing it  upside  down  the  while),  and  she  touched 
the  keys  of  the  piano  very  timidly,  and  her  face, 
at  the  ensuing  discord,  took  on  an  expression  that 
was  akin  to  ecstasy. 

Presently,  for  it  was  growing  dark,  Dayton 
lighted  candles  and  pulled  the  shades  over  the 
windows.  It  was  still  raining  hard,  and  he  won- 
dered what  Claire  D'Avril  was  going  to  do  about  it. 

"I  love  to  have  her,"  he  thought;  "she's  the 
first  really  lovely  thing  that's  happened  to  me 
for  weeks  and  weeks;  but  I  ought  not  to  let  her 
stay." 

She  stood  in  front  of  his  big  easel,  her  head  on 
one  side,  her  hands  lightly  clasped  behind  her 
back,  and  for  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  would  like  to  draw  her.  He  liked  her 
poise,  her  unaffected  gracefulness,  the  high  but 
not  stiff  carriage  of  her  head. 

"Some  day,"  he  said,  "if  I  ever  get  so  that 
I'm  any  good,  I'd  like  to  do  a  portrait  of  you. 
Have  you  ever  posed  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  have  a  friend  who  is  a  model,"  she  said, 
89 


His  Daughter 

"but  hers  is  a  sad  history  of  one  cold  in  the  head 
after  another.  Yet  she  has  a  pretty  figure  and 
is  well  paid,  so  she  can't  afford  to  give  up  posing." 

"I  didn't  mean  the  kind  of  posing  that  leads  to 
a  cold  in  the  head,"  Dayton  laughed,  and  stam- 
mered into  an  abrupt  change  of  subject. 

"Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"With  my  uncle  in  the  Rue  Centrale,"  she  said. 
"My  father  and  mother  are  dead.  But  I  earn 
my  board  by  selling  newspapers  and  magazines." 

"Won't  your  uncle  be  worried  about  you  ?" 

"Oh,  no;  he  thinks  I  am  down  the  river  with 
my  friends.  And  if  we  had  gone  I  shouldn't  have 
returned  till  late — very  late.  He  never  worries. 
If  I  never  came  back  at  all  he  would  simply  say 
it  was  what  he  had  always  predicted.  Every  day 
when  I  go  to  work  he  says:  'Well,  good-by  and 
good  luck  if  I  should  never  see  you  again.'  But 
that  is  very  natural.  Among  the  poor — que 
voulez-vous  /"  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"He  leaves  you  absolutely  free  to  lead  your 
own  life  ?" 

"Of  course.  I'm  free  as  air.  It  is  very  nice. 
It  is  also  very  lonely  sometimes." 

"You  ought  to  marry  and  have  a  home  of  your 


own. 


"I  could  have  married,"  she  said.     "It  was 
qo 


His  Daughter 

understood;  but  while  we  were  engaged  we  got 
to  like  each  other  less  and  less  instead  of  more 
and  more,  so  it's  just  as  well  nothing  came  of  it. 
But  it  would  be  pleasant.  I  don't  like  selling 
newspapers.  The  hours  are  so  long  and  you  stand 
up  so  much.  I  like  to  cook  and  sew  and  go  to 
market.  And  I  am  an  enemy  of  dust." 

"Speaking  of  cooking,"  said  Dayton,  "it's  get- 
ting on  toward  dinner-time.  Tea  wasn't  very 
solid.  What  do  you  say?  There's  a  nice  little 
restaurant  only  a  few  blocks  away — Gibier's." 

"But  the  rain?" 

"You'll  stay  here  while  I  go  for  a  taxi.  After 
dinner  I  will  drive  you  home.  And  if  your  pretty 
dress  gets  even  one  splash  of  water  on  it,  why  I'll 
be  responsible  to  the  dressmaker." 

"You  are  very  rich  for  an  artist." 

"I  have  more  money  than  many  artists,"  he 
said,  "for  the  simple  reason  that  I  am  not  an 
artist." 

So  presently  he  put  on  his  rain-coat  and  took 
his  umbrella  and  sallied  forth  in  search  of  a  taxi, 
while  Claire  D'Avril  settled  herself  luxuriously  in 
the  big  chair  and  thought  long  thoughts. 

"He  treats  me  as  if  I  were  a  vicomtesse,"  she 
said.  "It  is  very  pleasant  with  him.  ,  This  room 
could  be  made  very  charming  and  clean.  He  is 


His  Daughter 

very  timid.  He  is  not  like  other  men.  He  has 
not  tried  to  take  advantage  of  me.  I  shall  ride 
in  a  taxicab,  and  dine  at  Gibier's.  I  am  glad  I 
am  nicely  dressed.  He  will  not  be  ashamed.  I 
don't  think  he  will  ever  be  a  great  artist.  He 
has  a  little  talent,  but  not  much.  Anybody  could 
see  that  he  has  put  one  of  that  old  man's  ears  too 
high.  ...  I  wonder  what  he  would  say  if  I 
asked  him  to  let  me  stay  ?  I  should  like  to  live 
with  him,  because  he  is  so  gentle.  Was  it  alto- 
gether accidental  that  I  took  refuge  under  his 
doorway  instead  of  another;  or  was  there  some1 
unfathomable  design  about  it  ?  It  is  easy  to  see 
that  he  wastes  his  money.  I'd  be  a  real  bargain 
for  him  if  he  only  knew  it.  .  .  ." 

At  this  moment  Dayton  returned.  He  looked 
at  her  with  pleasure.  She  looked  very  much  at 
home  in  the  big  chair. 

"Some  people,"  he  said,  "like  paintings  and 
tapestry  and  gilt  furniture,  but  to  my  mind  noth- 
ing makes  a  room  look  as  dressed  up  as  the  per- 
sons in  it,  if  one  is  a  pretty  girl." 

He  placed  his  hat  on  his  heart  and  made  her  a 
gallant  bow. 

"The  taxi  of  madame  is  at  the  door,"  he  said.1 

She  rose,  but  with  evident  reluctance. 

"It  is  nice  here,"  she  said.  "I  have  been 
happy." 

92 


His  Daughter 

"It's  been  nice  having  you,"  he  said. 

At  the  door  she  turned  lingeringly  as  if  to  take 
in  all  the  details  of  the  place  and  impress  them 
on  her  memory. 

"How  many  rooms  are  there?"  she  asked. 

"Just  a  bedroom  and  a  bathroom  besides  the 
studio  and  a  sort  of  glorified  clothes-closet." 

"And  there  is  a  fireplace  so  that  you  will  be 
warm  in  winter.  It  is  very  nice." 

Claire  D'Avril  sighed,  but  as  they  walked  slowly 
down  the  stairs  she  held  her  head  very  high. 

"You  are  different  from  other  men,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

"In  what  way?" 

"You  are  generous.    Other  men  are  selfish." 

"All  other  men?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "all  the  others." 

For  the  brief  passage  of  the  sidewalk  he  made 
her  put  on  his  rain-coat  and  at  just  the  right  angle 
he  held  the  umbrella  to  shield  her  hat  from  the 
rain.  Not  a  drop  fell  on  her  borrowed  plumage. 

"It  will  be  fine  in  the  restaurant,"  she  an- 
nounced. "Perhaps  some  of  my  customers  will 
be  there.  They  will  say:  'Look  at  Claire  D'Avril 
in  a  blue-silk  dress  eating  dinner  with  the  Ameri- 
can nobleman ! '  I  am  glad  it  rained,  and  that  I 
did  not  go  down  the  river  with  my  friends.  I 
am  happy." 

93 


His  Daughter 

Dayton  was  less  happy.  Gibier's  was  his  fa- 
vorite "hang-out."  There,  nearly  always  alone, 
and  never  in  the  company  of  a  prepossessing 
young  female,  he  took  all  his  meals.  The  present 
adventure,  innocent  as  it  was,  would  give  rise  to 
comments  and  asides  among  the  other  habitues 
of  the  place.  And  when  he  made  his  "grand  en- 
trance," Claire  D'Avril  at  his  side,  he  would  blush 
and  feel  foolish.  He  knew  he  would. 

And  he  did.  But  the  waiter  and  habitues  took 
no  more  notice  of  Dayton  (apparently)  than  if  he 
had  been  alone.  Only  madame  (the  real  pro- 
prietor, her  big  husband  to  the  contrary  notwith- 
standing), fat  to  bursting,  seated  at  her  high  desk 
in  the  corner,  greeted  them  with  her  warmest  and 
most  approving  smile.  And  she  said  to  herself: 
"I  am  so  glad.  He  has  always  seemed  so  lonely." 

Dayton's  embarrassment  was  short-lived.  He 
began  to  enjoy  himself.  Until  he  contrasted  her 
with  some  of  the  other  women  diners,  he  had  not 
realized  how  very  smart  and  presentable  Claire 
D'Avril  was.  The  rosy  lighting  of  the  room  was 
very  becoming  to  her.  She  had  a  lovely  skin. 
He  was  proud  of  her.  He  would  ask  her  to  dine 
with  him  again  sometime.  Gayety  and  happiness 
gave  her  face  a  kind  of  childlike  radiance.  And 
her  delight  and  pride  were  almost  without  bounds 

94 


His  Daughter 

when  he  told  her  that  the  sparkling  stuff  in  her 
glass  was  champagne. 

An  orchestra  of  three  pieces  played  softly. 
Claire  D'Avril  had  shaken  off  all  the  dust  and 
weariness  of  this  world.  She  was  in  heaven. 
Dayton  was  a  god.  Fifteen  cents  here — twenty 
cents  there — a  small  fortune  for  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne !  It  was  nothing  to  him !  If  not  a  god, 
he  was  at  least  some  great,  mighty  lord.  Also  he 
was  very  beautiful.  Blessed  is  the  lot  even  of 
the  dog  of  such  a  man.  .  .  . 

The  coffee-cups  were  empty.  Dayton's  cigar 
was  only  an  inch  and  a  half  long.  Many  of  the 
tables  were  empty.  It  was  half  past  ten.  The 
big  clock  on  the  wall  said  so.  Claire  D'Avril 
sighed. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "it's  time  to  wake  up." 

"You  have  the  nicest  way  of  putting  things," 
he  said. 

"But  it  has  been  like  a  dream!"  she  said.  "I 
have  been  very  happy." 

"We'll  do  it  again,  then,"  said  Dayton.  "Yes 
— yes — please!" 

The  rain  was  over.  Stars  were  shining.  Claire 
D'Avril  bit  her  lips.  She  had  so  looked  forward 
to  one  more  taxi  ride.  Now  she  would  have  to 
walk.  But  not  so.  Well  and  truly  did  the  great 

95 


His  Daughter 

mighty  lord  hail  a  passing  taxi  and  chivalrously 
and  courteously  did  he  put  her  into  it,  and,  fol- 
lowing, sat  down  beside  her. 

To  the  house  of  Claire's  uncle  in  the  Rue  Cen- 
trale  was  a  long  distance.  For  a  time  you  fol- 
lowed the  river,  then  you  passed  through  a  laby- 
rinth of  narrow,  twisting,  fifteenth-century  streets, 
and  then,  unless  you  knew  your  Paris  by  heart, 
you  found  yourself  in  a  quarter  of  the  city  that 
was  new  to  you,  a  quarter  dull,  rectangular,  poor, 
and  uninteresting.  But  it  had  its  advantages. 
Rents  were  very  low. 

Either  the  young  people  were  talked  out,  or 
had  come  to  that  pleasant  pass  in  human  relations 
when  comparative  silence  is  the  most  agreeable 
eloquence. 

Claire  D'Avril  leaned  back  luxuriously,  her  eyes 
half-closed,  her  lips  parted  in  a  ghost  of  a  smile. 
Whenever  the  taxi  passed  through  the  illuminated 
area  about  a  street  lamp  Dayton  stole  a  look  at 
her.  She  had  a  face  of  which  you  would  not  soon 
grow  tired.  Her  dominant  expression  was  candor 
and  tolerant  good  humor.  Now  and  then  they 
exchanged  remarks. 

"It  is  very  far  to  bring  you.    I  am  sorry.". 

"But  I'm  enjoying  myself." 
96 


His  Daughter 

"  It  will  be  very  expensive.   I  could  have  walked." 

The  taxi  stopped.  The  driver  leaned  from  his 
seat  and  spoke  through  the  open  window: 

"Do  you  know  the  way  ?" 

"Use  the  left  .  .  .  the  next  turn.  Then  straight 
on.  I  will  tell  you  when  to  stop." 

She  sighed.     "We  are  nearly  there." 

"Are  you  sorry?" 

"Yes." 

For  some  time  Claire  D'Avril  had  been  making 
it  obvious  to  Dayton  that  she  enjoyed  being  with 
him;  that  the  day  had  been  a  day  to  mark  with 
a  white  stone;  and  that  the  return  to  the  house 
of  her  uncle  had  its  tragic  side. 

"When  I  get  back  to  the  studio,  it  will  seem 
very  empty,"  he  said. 

"You  must  tell  the  wife  of  the  concierge  to 
dust  in  the  corners,"  said  she.  "I  gave  one  look 
and  I  said  to  myself:  'Either  the  wife  of  the  con- 
cierge is  an  invalid,  or  else  she  is  not  a  good 
woman.'  Also,  because  you  are  rich,  you  should 
always  have  a  few  flowers.  Then  it  will  not  seem 
so  empty." 

Dayton  bowed  gravely.  "I  hear,  and  I  obey," 
he  said. 

Claire  D'Avril  leaned  from  the  window. 
"Stop!"  she  said.  "We're  there." 

97 


His  Daughter 

Dayton  helped  her  out.  "Good  night,"  he 
said.  "Thank  you  for  a  charming  evening. 
Good  luck!  Au  revoir!" 

The  driver  faced  around  so  that  he  could  better 
view  a  scene  which  caused  him  infinite  astonish- 
ment and  amusement.  His  eyes  became  round 
as  two  inflamed  saucers  and  he  stuck  his  tongue 
into  his  cheek.  His  fares  were  actually  saying 
good-by  to  each  other.  That  was  about  the  last 
thing  he  had  expected. 

"Thank  you  for  everything,"  said  Claire  D'Av- 
ril,  "and  au  revoir!" 

She  turned  abruptly  and  disappeared  into  a 
dark  archway. 

"Not  pretty  enough  ?"  asked  the  driver. 

Dayton  did  not  answer  this  impertinent  ques- 
tion. He  merely  gave  the  address  of  his  studio. 

Claire  D'Avril  rang  a  bell.  The  door  confront- 
ing her  gave  out,  after  a  long  interval,  a  sudden 
alarming  click,  and  stood  ajar.  She  closed  it 
carefully  behind  her,  and  meditatively  climbed 
four  flights  of  steep,  narrow  stairs. 

Her  mother's  brother,  Jules  Legros,  a  lean, 
nervous  little  man,  was  in  his  workshop,  a  room 
no  bigger  than  an  average  bathroom.  By  the 
light  of  a  single  gas-jet  he  was  delicately  removing 
a  very  small  rust  stain  from  a  splendid  sword-hilt 

98 


His  Daughter 

of  carved  steel.  His  business  in  life  was  a  busi- 
ness which  is  almost  extinct.  He  was  an  armorer. 
He  had  entire  charge  of  Baron  de  Rible's  astound- 
ing collection  of  weapons  and  coats  of  mail,  and 
except  for  its  chief  treasure,  a  sword-hilt  by  Cel- 
lini, there  was  no  piece  in  that  collection  which, 
given  time,  he  could  not  have  duplicated.  He 
had  no  peer  in  all  Europe.  And  upon  an  income 
of  something  over  a  dollar  a  day  he  supported  an 
incompetent  wife  and  three  young  children. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said,  with  cheerful  cyni- 
cism. "I  did  not  expect  you  in  so  early.  I 
thought  perhaps  you  would  not  come  back  at  all.'* 

"We  did  not  go  down  the  river  because  of  the 
rain  .  .  .  my  aunt  and  the  children?" 

He  tossed  his  head  toward  the  door  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  workroom  and  remarked  that  the 
sardines  were  safe  in  their  box. 

"You'll  ruin  your  eyes." 

"This  is  a  special  job.  I  am  to  be  paid  a  little 
extra.  The  baron  has  just  bought  this  sword. 
It  is  of  the  most  splendid.  He  wishes  to  exhibit 
it  to  a  friend.  The  extra  money  will  come  in  very 
handy,  because  madame  your  aunt  announced  to 
me  only  this  morning  that  there  is  to  be  another 
sardine." 

"But  that's  a  tragedy." 
99 


His  Daughter 

Jules  Legros  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  held 
the  hilt  of  the  sword  very  close  to  his  eyes. 

"The  poor  little  things !"  he  said.  "They  have 
a  right  to  be  born." 

"  But  four  children !  It's  unheard  of !  I  think 
you  and  my  aunt  ought  to  be  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  yourselves!" 

"And  you,"  said  Legros,  imperturbably  chang- 
ing the  subject,  "since  you  did  not  go  down  the 
river?  You  dined  somewhere,  I  suppose?" 

"With  an  American  gentleman,"  she  said. 

"They  are  very  rich,  these  Americans,"  com- 
mented her  uncle.  "It  is  a  very  rich  country, 
and  very  immense.  It  is  twice  as  big  as  France. 
I  could  make  my  fortune  selling  imitation  weapons 
to  Americans.  They  are  at  once  open-handed 
and  gullible." 

She  leaned  against  the  work-bench  and  viva- 
ciously and  with  much  detail  recounted  her  ad- 
ventures. 

"It  is  these  sudden,  unlooked-for  pleasures  that 
give  spice  to  life,"  said  her  uncle.  "You  now 
not  only  have  something  out  of  the  ordinary  to 
look  back  upon,  but  the  possibility  of  future  ex- 
traordinary happenings  to  look  forward  to.  You 
have  ridden  in  a  taxi,  not  once  but  twice.  You 
have  drunk  champagne.  It's  immense.  And  now 
it  is  late.  Go  to  bed." 

100 


His  Daughter 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  "what  will  become  of  me 
when  the  new  sardine  arrives  ?  There  isn't  room 
now." 

"It  is  a  pity  that  your  marriage  fell  through." 

"I  am  terribly  in  the  way.  I  know  that.  You 
must  hate  me." 

"On  the  contrary,  my  child,  I  love  you  very 
well.  You  are  a  good  girl.  Sometimes  I  think, 
considering  your  station  in  life,  that  you  are  too 
good  for  your  own  good."  And  he  cackled  mildly 
at  his  pleasantry. 

"And  now  go  to  bed — while  there  is  still  room." 

Claire  D'Avril  was  at  her  news-stand  bright 
and  early.  She  hoped  against  hope  that  Dayton 
would  come  to  her  stand  to  buy  a  paper.  She 
was  in  a  merry  humor.  Certain  men  who  bought 
papers  of  her  solely  for  the  opportunity  thus  af- 
forded of  making  love  to  her,  were  treated  to 
some  very  rough-and-ready  examples  of  her  wit 
and  self-reliance.  Her  vocabulary  and  her  breadth 
of  mind  and  knowledge  would  have  horrified 
Dayton, 

She  was  no  longer  his  gentle  companion  in 
blue  silk,  but  a  very  plainly  dressed  young  woman, 
who,  if  she  had  not  been  brought  up  in  the  gutter, 
had  always  lived  where  she  could  see  and  hear 
what  was  going  on  in  that  metaphoric  place. 

101 


His  Daughter 

Just  when  she  had  given  up  all  hope  of  seeing 
Dayton  that  morning  he  appeared,  not  strolling, 
as  was  his  habit,  but  walking  with  long,  energetic 
strides.  Her  heart  gave  a  sudden  strong  leap. 

"Good  morning,  Mademoiselle  D'Avril,"  he 
said.  "I  have  come  for  my  paper.  Le  Matin, 
please." 

Without  taking  her  happy,  smiling  eyes  off 
Dayton,  Claire  D'Avril  separated  a  copy  of  Le 
Matin  from  a  diminished  pile  and  handed  it  to 
him. 

"Your  uncle  wasn't  angry  ?" 

"Oh,  no !  I  told  him  all  about  everything,  and 
he  was  pleased  that  I  had  been  happy." 

"What  do  you  do  when  you  want  to  take  a 
day  off  ?  Is  there  some  one  who  looks  after  the 
news-stand  for  you  ?" 

Claire  D'Avril's  smile  grew  more  bright.  For 
Dayton's  questions  seemed  to  indicate  some  sort 
of  a  delectable  invitation. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  Fon- 
tainebleau  for  the  day.  Would  you  care  to 
come?" 

Dayton  had  not  intended  to  ask  her  to  go  with 
him.  The  wish  to  do  so  had  come  to  him  sud- 
denly, while  he  stood  looking  at  her. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  "I  should  have  to  come 
1 02 


His  Daughter 

just  as  I  am.  I  have  no  better  dress  than  this, 
and  I  have  already  returned  the  blue  dress  to  my 
friend.  You  would  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  with 
me.  And  so  " — her  lower  lip  quivered — "  I  mustn't 
think  of  going." 

"What  nonsense!" 

But  she  was  very  firm.  The  more  she  thought 
of  it,  the  less  she  could  tolerate  the  idea  of  dis- 
gracing him  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  What  he 
felt  to  be  sheer  stubbornness  and  false  pride  net- 
tled Dayton. 

"It's  for  the  pleasure  of  your  company  that 
I'm  asking  you,"  he  said,  "and  for  no  other  rea- 
son. But  you  don't  care  to  come.  Well,  I'm 
sorry." 

"Please  don't  be  angry  with  me,"  said  Claire 
D'Avril.  "It's — you  haven't  quite  understood. 
It's — "  She  spoke  very  rapidly  and  in  a  low 
voice.  "When  people  see  a  man  and  a  girl  going 
about  together,  they — well,  if  the  man  is  well 
dressed  and  the  girl  is  shabby — they,  the  people, 
that  is,  think  of  that  man  with  contempt.  They 
say:  'He  is  mean  to  her.'  Now,  last  night  at  the 
restaurant,  when  the  people  saw  me  in  that  fine 
blue-silk  dress,  they  said:  'There  is  a  man  who 
is  good  to  his  little  friend.  And  I  who  know  how 
kind  you  are  and  how  generous,  cannot  bear  to 

103 


His  Daughter 

have  anybody  think  differently  about  you.  There ! 
That  is  why  I  will  not  go  to  Fontainebleau  with 
you  in  these  shabby  clothes !  Now  do  you  under- 
stand ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Dayton,  "I  think  I  do.  But 
what  total  strangers  think  about  me  doesn't  in- 
terest me  very  much.  Still,  if  it  interests  you — " 
He  hesitated.  He  was  afraid  that  if  he  bluntly 
offered  to  buy  her  a  pretty  dress  she  would  be 
insulted.  "If,"  he  said,  "you  had  a  pretty  dress, 
you  wouldn't  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  me  ? 
But  you  can't  afford  to  buy  such  a  dress.  .  .  . 
Now,  look  here.  My  French  is  execrable.  You 
shall  give  me  lessons  in  conversation.  I  will  pay 
so  much  for  the  lessons,  and  I  will  advance  my 
teacher  enough  money  to  buy  her  a  charming 
costume.  Now,  please  don't  say  'No."! 

But  Claire  D'Avril  did  not  say  "No."  A  look 
of  ecstasy  came  into  her  eyes.  She  felt  as  if  she 
had  peeped  into  heaven. 

"Yes!  Yes!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  will  give  you 
lessons.  It  is  wonderful!" 

The  next  day  they  went  to  Fontainebleau. 
Claire  D'Avril  had  bought  the  blue-silk  dress  and 
the  smart  little  hat  that  went  with  it.  They  vis- 
ited the  palace,  they  had  a  delicious  lunch,  with 
a  small  bottle  of  red  wine,  under  a  grape-arbor, 

104 


His  Daughter 

and  afterward  they  strolled  in  the  cool  forest. 
She  amused  Dayton  immensely,  interested  him, 
and  charmed  him.  She  was  immensely  compan- 
ionable. 

They  returned  to  Paris  and  had  dinner  at  the 
Tour  d'Argent.  And  afterward  he  drove  her 
home. 

"It's  been  a  very  short  day,  Claire,"  he  said. 
"I  hate  to  say  good-by." 

"I,  too,"  she  said. 

And  after  that,  for  several  blocks,  there  was  a 
kind  of  charged  silence.  He  was  growing  fond  of 
her.  And  he  knew  it.  He  was  beginning  to  have 
a  feeling  of  responsibility  toward  her;  a  wish  to 
make  her  life  easier,  to  spend  a  little  money  on 
her.  The  cab  stopped. 

"When  am  I  to  have  another  lesson,  Claire?" 

"When  you  wish." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  said: 

"To-morrow?'* 

"At  what  time  and  where  ?" 

"If  I  come  to  your  news-stand  for  you,  the 
cafe  will  begin  to  talk,  and  that  might  not  be 
agreeable  for  you.  Could  you  come  to  the  studio 
about  four  o'clock?  I  think  it  would  be  fun  to 
drive  in  the  Bois  and  dine  at  the  Cascades." 

"At  four,  I  shall  come." 
105 


His  Daughter 

"Good.     And  good  night." 

"Good  night." 

Youth  is  swift.  And  it  got  so  that  either  Day- 
ton himself,  or  his  thoughts,  were  with  Claire 
D'Avril  almost  all  the  time.  She  was  no  longer 
merely  a  pretty  girl  and  an  amusing  companion. 
There  were  moments  when  she  seemed  really  beau- 
tiful in  his  eyes,  and  he  had  impulses  almost  vio- 
lent to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her. 

Dorothy  Grandison's  grave  eyes,  of  which  many 
pairs  looked  at  him  from  his  bureau,  no  longer 
troubled  him.  He  was  as  free  from  any  influence 
she  had  ever  had  over  him  as  if  they  had  never 
met.  Dorothy  had  been  an  episode.  She  was 
only  a  child.  Probably  she,  too,  was  forgetting 
him.  How  wise  Mrs.  Grandison  had  been  about 
the  whole  thing!  He  was  very  grateful  to  her. 
.  .  .  That  Arab  girl  in  Cairo  had  left  a  more 
vivid  impression  upon  his  mind  than  Dorothy 
had  succeeded  in  making.  .  .  .  But  Claire  D'Av- 
ril! ...  Other  artists  .  .  .  Why,  it  was  the 
custom  of  the  country.  .  .  .  People  neither 
thought  well  nor  ill  of  such  relationships.  They 
simply  did  not  think  about  them  at  all  ...  to 
have  her  always  with  him  .  .  .  not  to  be  always 
waiting  and  waiting,  and  almost  at  once  to  be 
saying  good-by.  .  .  . 

106 


His  Daughter 

But  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  the  words 
which  might  have  altered  their  relationship. 
They  stuck  in  his  throat.  He  would  start  the 
day  firmly  resolved  to  get  the  matter  settled  one 
way  or  the  other.  But  when  the  moment  for 
speaking  out  seemed  to  have  arrived,  his  courage 
failed  him. 

With  his  work  he  was  now  making  no  progress. 
His  heart  had  abandoned  all  co-operation.  It  was, 
so  to  speak,  always  running  off  to  be  with  Claire 
— while  he  remained  numb  and  heartless  to  con- 
front the  challenge  of  the  drawing-paper  or  the 
wet  clay.  But  if  Claire  came  to  live  with  him  all 
would  be  well.  She  would  be  an  inspiration;  his 
work  would  be  a  miracle  of  progress. 

He  was  glad  to  think  that  he  had  never  fallen 
into  any  chance  intrigue.  Had  Claire  ?  he  won- 
dered. Very  likely.  He  did  not  wish  to  know. 
He  would  never  ask  her.  He  would  always  be 
good  to  her,  always  tender.  And  if  they  ever  did 
have  to  part,  he  would,  manage  to  take  care  of 
her.  But  he  could  not  think  about  parting.  He 
loved  her  so  dearly  that  such  thoughts  stabbed 
like  knives.  .  .  .  There  would  be  no  parting. 
Time  would  stand  still.  It  would  be  always  sum- 
mer. 

Claire  D'Avril  had  made  an  unconscious  but 
107 


His  Daughter 

thorough  study  of  such  phases  of  living  and  man- 
ners as  had  come  under  her  observation.  The 
women  whom  she  admired,  whether  married  or 
not,  were  good  housewives,  who  made  their  men 
comfortable  and  saved  their  money  for  them;  to 
belong  to  the  man  she  loved,  and  to  sacrifice  her- 
self in  every  way  for  his  welfare  and  comfort,  was, 
roughly  speaking,  her  idea  of  the  whole  duty  of 
woman.  She  was  very  ardent,  very  sentimental, 
and  very  practical.  From  any  sum  of  money  she 
could  extract  the  last  least  portion  of  its  purchas- 
ing power.  And  she  knew  her  potential  value 
either  in  real  marriage  or  in  one  of  those  relation- 
ships so  usual  on  the  Continent,  and  which  per- 
haps may  best  be  described  as  trial  marriages. 
She  knew  of  one  trial  marriage  which  at  the  end 
of  eighteen  years  had  been  changed  into  a  real 
marriage. 

If  she  should  become  Dayton's  mistress,  she 
would  not  lose  caste.  Her  uncle,  a  good  and  up- 
right man,  might  tease  her,  but  in  his  heart  he 
would  feel  that  she  had  done  well  for  herself. 

Already  her  influence  over  Dayton  had  trans- 
formed the  studio.  He  had  bought  two  or  three 
good  pieces  of  furniture  and  a  really  ancient  and 
splendid  rectangle  of  yellow  brocade.  He  had 
learned  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  dust,  and  the 

108 


His  Daughter 

most  likely  places  to  look  for  it.  He  had  bought 
a  number  of  flowering  plants  in  pots,  so  that  the 
great  room,  formerly  so  bare  and  gray,  had  bright 
color  now  and  was  very  livable. 

Claire  came  often  to  the  studio.  He  was  doing 
a  head  of  her  which,  if  not  a  delightful  picture, 
gave  promise  of  being  a  good  likeness.  She  pre- 
ferred the  studio  to  the  Bois,  to  the  Luxembourg 
Gardens,  to  Gibier's,  to  the  Tour  d'Argent,  to  the 
Forest  of  Fontainebleau  or  any  of  their  other 
haunts.  It  gave  her  proprietary  feelings.  She 
no  longer  introduced  changes  with:  "Don't  you 
think  you  had  better  do  so  and  so?"  but  with: 
"Don't  you  think  we"  etc.  He  was  continually 
asking  her  advice,  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  having 
her  give  it.  And  he  always  took  it,  sometimes 
for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  giving  her  pleasure.  If 
his  drawing  was  standing  still,  his  French  at  least 
was  going  forward  by  leaps  and  bounds.  It  would 
never  be  French  French,  but  already  there  was 
plenty  of  it,  and  each  day  there  was  more. 

The  fifteenth  of  August  was  one  of  the  most 
important  days  in  their  lives.  The  morning  was 
hazy  and  sultry.  Dayton  got  it  over  with  as 
best  he  could,  and  the  early  hours  of  the  after- 
noon. She  was  not  coming  until  six.  They  were 

109 


His  Daughter 

going  to  dine  somewhere  on  the  other  bank  of  the 
river,  and  later  to  see  a  very  famous  actor  in  "Le 
Monde  on  Ton  s'Ennuie." 

He  had  told  her  to  come  in  a  taxi.  Now  and 
then  he  looked  out  of  the  window;  and  all  the 
time,  in  his  subconsciousness,  he  was  listening  for 
the  burr  of  the  motor.  But  Claire,  economical  to 
the  core,  except  on  the  occasions  when  Dayton 
himself  could  share_in  the  extravagance,  had 
walked. 

There  was  a  light  knocking  and  the  door  of 
the  studio  very  slowly  opened. 

She  was  wearing  the  famous  blue-silk  dress  (it 
was  wonderful  how  perennially  fresh  she  kept  it), 
and  her  face,  all  alight  with  the  pleasure  of  the 
moment,  was  ravishingly  pretty. 

"Here  I  am!'*  she  said. 

"And  you  walked,  you  little  niggard  !"~~He 
smiled  upon  her  with  much  tolerance.  "Shall  we 
start?" 

"Let  me  sit  down  for  five  seconds.  I  ran  up 
the  stairs.  I'm  all  out  of  breath." 

So  she  sat  down  for  "five  seconds"  and  allowed 
her  eyes  to  roam  triumphantly  among  the  various 
improvements  which  she  had  effected. 

"How  did  you  leave  the  family?" 

"Ah,  the  poor  things !  When  it  is  hot  like  this, 
no 


His  Daughter 

they  are  so  crowded.  Tinon  has  a  frightful  fever 
blister.  He  cannot  leave  it  alone  and  it  gets 
worse  and  worse.  It  is  cool  here." 

"Cool,"  said  Dayton,  "and  at  the  moment 
pleasant.  But  during  the  day  it  has  been  empty 
and  lonely  and  disagreeable.  I  have  worked  hard 
and  I  accomplished  nothing." 

"You  are  a  perfect  child,"  she  said.  "When 
you  are  alone  you  don't  know  what  to  do.  .  .  . 
Well,  don't  stand  there  looking  at  me  like  that! 
I'm  rested.  Shall  we  start  ?" 

"I'll  go  after  a  cab." 

"Let's  go  together.  It's  not  far  to  the  cab- 
stand. And  you  look  so  magnificent  in  those 
clothes  that  I  don't  want  to  miss  a  single  moment 
of  reflected  glory." 

All  through  dinner,  and  all  through  the  play, 
Dayton  was  curiously  reserved  and  silent.  Usu- 
ally he  entered  into  the  spirit  of  things  with  all 
his  heart.  She  wondered  what  ailed  him  and 
proposed  at  thejirst  opportunity  to  find  out. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dayton  had  made  a  firm 
resolution,  and  it  was  this  which  weighed  upon 
his  spirits.  He  was  Jll-at-ease  and  very  nervous. 
For  he  had  come  to  a  definite  conclusion  that 
either  his  relations  with  Claire  must  change  or 

in 


His  Daughter 

cease.  He  couldn't  work  and  he  couldn't  sleep; 
but  if  she  wouldn't  have  him,  if  he  went  away, 
making  a  great  effort  to  put  behind  him  all  mem- 
ories of  her,  he  might  win  back  to  cool  sanity. 

In  short,  he  had  determined  to  speak. 

The  play  over,  they  walked  slowly  along  the 
sidewalk  looking  for  a  cab.  Having  found  one, 
Dayton  gave  the  driver,  not  the  address  of  Claire's 
uncle,  but  of  the  studio.  As  he  did  so  his  voice 
shook  a  little  and  his  heart  leaped  in  his  breast. 
He  stole  a  look  at  Claire  D'Avril.  She  did  not 
seem  to  have  heard. 

When  the  cab  stopped  opposite  the  doorway  in 
which  she  had  taken- refuge  from  the  rain,  she 
made  no  comment.  Dayton  opened  the  door 
with  his  latch-key  and  silently  and  very  slowly 
they  climbed  the  one  flight  of  stairs  to  the  studio. 

Having  entered,  Claire  spoke  for  the  first  time. 
Her  voice  shook  a  little. 

"It's  nice  here,"  she  said. 

Dayton  left  her  alone  for  a  moment,  without 
explanation.  He  stalked  into  his  bedroom,  gath- 
ered together  with  a  kind  of  passion  all  his  photo- 
graphs of  Dorothy  Grandison  and  shoved  them 
into  the  back  corner  of  a  drawer  under  a  pile  of 
neckties.  Then  he  went  back  to  Claire. 

She  had  not  moved.  He  went  up  to  her  quickly 
112 


His  Daughter 

and  caught  both  her  hands  in  his.  He  meant  to 
speak  gently.  Butvhe  had  to  force  his  voice,  and 
the  result  was  to  make  it  sound  rough  and  im- 
perious. 

"If  you  want  me  to  get  a  cab  and  send  you 
back  to  your  uncle's,  say  so  quickly,"  he  said. 

"But  I  don't,"  she  said,  in  a  small  voice.  _"I'd 
rather  stay  with  you." 


Ill 

CLAIRE  D'AVRIL  had  gone;  but  the  studio 
was  not  empty.  She  had  gone,  not  as  the 
parting  guest  goes,  but  as  one  who  sallies  forth 
briefly  from  a  refuge — from  a  stronghold,  and 
who  will  soon  return.  She  would  not  return  be- 
cause she  was  invited  to,  but  because  she  had  a 
right  to;  the  studio  was  hers  now,  to  do  with  as 
she  pleased.  And  she  intended  to  make  a  home 
of  it. 

So,  very  proudly  and  with  a  new  and  wonder- 
ful look  in  her  eyes,  without  compunction  or  re- 
gret, without  fear,  confident  of  the  future,  confi- 
dent in  the  goodness  of  the  human  heart,  having 
been  tenderly  embraced  at  parting,  she  sallied 
forth  into  the  lovely  sunshine,  and,  having  hailed 
a  taxicab,  was  driven  in  state  to  the  home  of 
her  uncle. 

She  was  not  early  enough  in  the  day  to  catch 
her  aunt  and  the  children.  She  was  not  sorry. 

Jules  Legros,  bent  over  his  bench,  straightened 
his  thin  back  with  an  effort  and  looked  at  her 
curiously.  She  had  expected  a  cynical  greeting. 
She  was  surprised  at  detecting  in  his  voice  a  note, 

114 


His  Daughter 

not  altogether  new,  but  very  rare,  of  sorrow  and 
pity. 

"You  have  come  for  your  things,  I  suppose,  my 
poor  little  Claire?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  uncle,  and  to  tell  you  of  my  great  happi- 
ness." 

"Happiness  is  like  sunshine  on  an  April  day. 
Now  you  see  it — now  you  don't.  ...  It  is  the 
American  ?" 

"Yes.     It  is  because  we  love  each  other." 

"I  have  expected  this  for  a  long  time.  And 
now  that  it  has  happened  I  am  not  happy." 

The  little  man  sighed,  and  he  turned  to  a  little 
cube  of  vised  steel,  at  which  he  had  been  filing 
with  great  tenderness  and  understanding.  He 
sometimes  did  work  within  the  limits  of  a  thou- 
sandth of  an  inch. 

"I  shall  miss  your  cheerfulness  and  your  cour- 
age," he  said,  "but  you  will  come  to  see  us  some- 
times ? " 

"Surely.  And  by  and  by,  when  we  are  set- 
tled, you  shall  take  a  holiday  and  come  to  lunch 
with  us;  you  and  my  aunt  and  the  children.  We 
will  send  a  taxicab.  You  will  see  for  yourselves 
how  happily  I  am  established." 

"It  will  be  an  event,"  said  her  uncle  gently. 

It  would  have  been  far  easier  for  Claire  D'Avril 


His  Daughter 

if  he  had  been  jocose  and  cynical.  She  could  bet- 
ter have  withstood  downright  coarseness  than 
sorrow  and  pity. 

"You  don't  look  at  me,"  she  said,  "and  you 
are  so  unlike  yourself.  You  aren't  angry  with 
me,  and  yet  there  is  something.  ...  I  am  not 
an  ignorant  girl.  If,  by  some  blessed  chance,  I 
have  not  till  now  lived,  at  least  I  have  seen  life. 
I  have  seen  girls  in  my  station  in  life  go  up,  and 
I  have  seen  others  go  down.  Now  I,  too,  have 
taken  a  serious  step,  and  one  which,  for  many 
weeks,  I  have  longed  to  take.  ...  I  have  begun 
to  live.  I  am  not  to  be  sorrowed  over  or  pitied. 
...  I  have  not  taken  this  great  step  for  the 
love  of  finery  and  of  ease,  but  for  the  sake  of  love 
itself.  I  have  struck  no  bargain.  .  .  .  He  is 
good  through  and  through,  like  pure  gold,  and 
something  tells  me  that  I,  too,  have  a  good  heart. 
.  .  .  And  I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  feel 
unhappy  about  me.  .  .  .  Why,  it's  almost 
as  if  you  thought  that  I  had  done  something 
wicked!" 

Jules  Legros  dropped  his  file  among  other  tools 
on  the  bench  and  opened  his  arms  to  her,  and 
they  rocked  to  and  fro,  sideways,  and  snuffled 
loudly  as  if  they  had  colds  in  their  heads.  Pres- 
ently her  uncle  released  her  and  wiped  his  eyes 
with  a  corner  of  his  apron. 

116 


His  Daughter 

"I  am  convinced,"  he  said,  "that  all  is  for  the 
best.  ...  So  get  your  things  together.  .  .  . 
This  bit  of  metal  does  not  look  like  much;  but  its 
actual  importance  is  of  the  very  first  water." 

But  when  she  had  disappeared  into  that  closet- 
like  room,  all  bed  and  bureau,  which  had  been 
hers  for  many  years,  Jules  Legros  did  not  at  once 
go  on  with  his  filing. 

He  pulled  open  a  drawer  in  his  work-bench  and 
after  ransacking  among  a  thick  miscellany  of  odds 
and  ends,  produced  a  small  cylindrical  package. 
It  might  have  been  a  short  length  of  gun-barrel 
wrapped  in  greasy  rags.  But  it  was  not.  It  was 
a  stack  of  twenty-franc  gold  pieces. 

Jules  Legros  selected  one  of  them  with  a  view 
to  its  newness  and  the  clearness  of  its  stamping, 
and  laid  it  aside.  Then  he  wrapped  up  the  di- 
minished stack  in  its  greasy  rags  and  hid  it  away 
in  the  drawer.  He  shut  the  drawer. 

He  stood  in  thought,  looking  now  at  the  one 
bright  gold  piece,  now  at  the  closed  drawer.  He 
reopened  the  drawer.  Once  more  he  unwrapped 
the  gold  pieces;  he  drew  out  another.  .  .  .  Claire 
D'Avril  came  out  of  her  old  room  for  the  last 
time.  Under  each  arm  she  carried  a  large,  bulg- 
ing pasteboard  box  tied  with  string. 

"  Put  down  the  boxes,"  said  Jules  Legros.  She 
did  so. 

117 


His  Daughter 

"Shut  your  eyes,  and  hold  out  your  hands — 
palms  up." 

It  was  an  old  game  of  her  childhood.  The  tears 
ran  down  her  cheeks. 

"Now  look." 

In  each  rosy  palm  she  saw  a  bright  gold 
piece.  .  .  . 

"No!    No!    No!  "she  cried. 

"Silence !"  cried  her  uncle  in  a  terrifying  voice, 
his  moustaches  bristling. 

"But " 

"You  have,  in  truth,"  he  said,  "taken  a  great 
step.  But  it  was  not  for  the  love  of  finery  that 
you  took  it,  nor  for  the  love  of  ease.  ...  It  was 
for  love's  sake.  Therefore  it  is  not  fitting  that 
you  should  go  to  him  without  a  little  something 
of  your  own." 

He  spoke  loudly  and  with  great  excitement. 
He  was  terribly  afraid  that  at  any  me  ment  he 
might  regret  his  generosity  and  that  in  his  face 
she  might  read  that  regret. 

"And  furthermore,"  he  thundered,  "if  you  say 
as  much  as  one  single  word,  why  then,  to  the  two 
gold  pieces  you  already  have  I  will  add  a  third. 
.  .  .  Kiss  me,  my  poor  little  fool.  .  .  .  And 
as  to  the  gold  pieces,  don't  tell  your  aunt !" 

So  Claire  D'Avril  departed,  weeping,  from  the 
118 


His  Daughter 

crowded  home  of  her  childhood  and  descended  the 
four  flights  of  stairs,  together  with  the  two  paste- 
board boxes  and  the  two  pieces  of  gold.  And  she 
entered  the  waiting  taxi  and  drove  away  to  her 
new  home. 

And  she  was  glad  that  she  was  not  like  some 
wretched  girl  of  the  streets,  drawn  by  the  love  of 
finery  and  of  ease.  She  was  an  independent  girl, 
going  to  her  lover,  because  it  pleased  her  to  go — 
a  girl  free-born  and  independent — a  girl  with  two 
pasteboard  boxes  full  of  belongings,  and  with 
money  of  her  own. 

She  had,  in  our  money,  nearly  eight  dollars. 

Dayton  was  wrong  in  thinking  that  the  power 
to  work  with  real  concentration  would  at  once 
return  to  him.  Mastery  and  success  seemed  neb- 
ulous affairs.  Only  Claire  mattered. 

Another  man,  having  at  last  come  tumbling 
down  from  the  heights  of  virtue,  might  have  spent 
a  remorseful  morning  of  regrets  and  excuses,  but 
Dayton  was  like  a  traveller  who,  in  awe  and  won- 
der, walks  slowly  about  some  beautiful  town  in  a 
strange  land,  looking  upward.  His  spirits  and  his 
self-respect  were  not  dashed  to  the  ground.  They 
were  exalted.  It  seemed  to  him  that  at  last  he 
had  begun  to  live  and  that  life  was  beautiful. 

119 


His  Daughter 

He  was  in  love  with  Claire.  He  was  sure  of 
that.  He  did  not  see  how  in  one  man  there  could 
be  more  love  for  any  woman.  And  it  was  this 
fact — the  fact  of  their  loving  each  other — that 
made  all  the  difference,  for  love  and  shame,  it 
seemed  to  him,  can  never  live  under  the  same  roof. 

But  in  spite  of  his  triumphantness  and  exalta- 
tion, it  must  be  confessed  that  from  time  to  time, 
while  he  waited  impatiently  for  Claire  to  return 
from  her  uncle's  apartment,  he  fabricated  excuses 
and  offered  them  to  himself  for  what  they  were 
worth.  His  own  was  not  the  only  moral  collapse 
(he  didn't  call  it  that)  that  he  had  to  think  about. 
He  was  the  captain  of  his  own  soul  (perhaps), 
but  of  that  other  soul  which  he  had  dragged  down 
with  him  he  could  never  be  in  command.  It  was 
no  facility  born  of  experience  that  had  caused 
Claire  D'Avril  to  yield  so  easily  to  him.  He  had 
no  predecessor  on  whom  the  blame  could  be  laid. 
The  innocence  with  which  he  had  received  was 
no  just  offset  to  the  innocence  with  which  she 
had  given.  We  do  not,  in  this  connection,  speak 
of  a  man  being  ruined  (perhaps  we  should,  but 
we  don't) ;  we  speak  of  the  girl  in  the  case  as  hav- 
ing been  ruined  by  the  man. 

And,  like  it  or  not,  Dayton  was  obliged  to  con- 
fess that,  from  the  American  point  of  view  at 

1 20 


His  Daughter 

least,  that  was  precisely  the  extent  of  his  respon- 
sibility to  Claire  D'Avril.  That  her  innocence 
had  come  more  than  half-way  to  meet  him  did  not 
lessen  that  responsibility  one  single  jot,  for  the 
man,  himself  in  love,  who  takes  advantage  of  a 
girl's  love  and  passion  is  only  superior,  by  a  pale 
shadow  of  morality,  to  the  beast  who  gains  his 
ends  by  the  use  of  drugged  wine. 

Very  faintly  then  he  realized  that  to  the  labors 
of  making  his  way  in  the  world  he  had  added,  at 
the  very  beginning,  a  heavy  weight  of  responsi- 
bility. But,  as  is  usual,  he  had  not  gone  far 
enough  along  the  trail  to  feel  the  weight  of  the 
pack.  Indeed,  it  rested  very  lightly  upon  him. 
It  would  be  long  before  the  straps  by  which  it 
was  suspended  began  to  cut  into  his  shoulders. . . . 

Claire  D'Avril,  swiftly  approaching  in  the  taxi- 
cab  with  her  two  pasteboard  boxes  and  her  dower 
of  nearly  eight  dollars,  had  recovered  from  the 
emotion  roused  by  the  interview  with  her  uncle. 
Her  face  sparkled  with  happiness.  She  had  the 
happiness  of  the  lover  whose  love  is  returned, 
and  of  the  schoolboy  who,  being  released  from 
school,  is  starting  on  the  long  vacation.  She 
would  not  sell  any  more  newspapers;  she  would 
sell  the  rights  of  the  stand  to  her  friend,  Mimi 
Bonheur,  who  had  always  coveted  them;  she 

121 


His  Daughter 

would  no  longer  have  to  stand  first  on  one  foot 
and  then  on  the  other,  while  detestable  men  made 
leering  love  to  her.  She  was  free — beloving  and 
beloved. , 

Concerning  the  serious  step  which  she  had 
taken,  she  had  no  regret  whatever.  For  a  girl  in 
her  station  of  life  she  had  done  gloriously  well. 
Her  friends  would  envy  her.  No  one  would  give 
her  the  cold  shoulder.  Quite  the  contrary. 

In  Paris,  in  certain  circles,  young  people  pair 
off  without  any  sanction  of  church  or  law,  as 
freely  and  merrily  as  birds.  And  nobody  looks 
down  on  these  couples  any  more  than  anybody 
looks  up  to  them.  And  sometimes  these  trial 
marriages  turn  out  very  well.  And  some,  of 
course,  frivolously  and  perhaps  mischievously 
undertaken,  turn  out  very  badly  indeed.  Some, 
sanctioned  by  faithfulness,  suffering,  and  duration, 
earn  from  the  community  the  same  respect  which 
is  given  to  the  holy  state  of  matrimony.  And 
some  actually  end  in  that  state. 

Claire  herself  belonged  to  the  wild-goose  branch 
of  the  humani. family,  and  the  wild-goose  branch, 
as  all  men  know,  is  the  respectable  branch;  for 
wild  geese  love  but  once.  No  justice  of  the  peace, 
no  holy  ritual,  could  have  attached  Claire  more 
completely  or  more  faithfully  to  Dayton  than  her 

122 


His  Daughter 

own  nature  had  attached  her  to  him.  And  when 
she  had  flung  the  door  of  the  studio  wide  open, 
she  dropped  her  great  boxes  and  flew  into  his 
open  arms. 

Thus  embracing,  they  conversed  for  some  mo- 
ments in  a  very  silly,  unspellable,  and  delightful 
language. 

To  Claire  it  was  a  wonderful  home-coming. 
She  made  much  of  it.  She  said  how  wonderful  it 
was.  Her  uncle  had  never  been  very  demonstra- 
tive. The  children  .  .  .  well,  they  did  fly  to  her 
and  hug  her  and  kiss  her  when  she  came  back 
from  work;  but  this  was  different.  This  was  so 
different  that  she  doubted  if  paradise  itself  had 
anything  sweeter  to  offer.  .  .  .  Well,  be  sensible 
— those  were  her  things,  all  she  had  in  the  world, 
in  these  two  pasteboard  boxes — where  should  she 
put  them  ?  There  was  only  the  one  bureau.  .  .  . 
Suppose  she  look  in  the  bureau.  She  did,  and 
found  that  Dayton  had  transferred  his  belongings 
to  the  walnut  chest  of  drawers  in  the  studio  itself. 
So  she  carried  her  pasteboard  boxes  into  the  bed- 
room and  unpacked  them  on  the  bed.  Hers  was 
a  very  humble  and  pitiful  wardrobe,  with  exquisite 
mendings.  It  told  a  story  of  valor  and  poverty 
that  brought  a  lump  into  Dayton's  throat.  The 
more  he  learned  about  her  the  better  he  liked  her. 

123 


His  Daughter 

He  watched  her  tenderly  while  she  stowed  her  be- 
longings in  the  bureau  drawers.  They  didn't  take 
up  much  room.  When  she  had  finished,  he  slid 
an  arm  around  her  and  led  her  back  to  the  studio. 

A  small  kitchen  and  pantry,  which  Dayton  had 
not  needed,  went  with  the  suite;  but  during  Claire's 
absence  he  had  made  an  arrangement  with  the 
landlord  and  acquired  the  use  of  these  important 
rooms. 

"You  said  you  couldn't  be  really  happy  if  you 
didn't  cook  and  go  to  market  and  wash  dishes," 
he  said,  "so  I've  had  these  rooms  put  in  order, 
and  all  we  need  is  a  few  pots  and  pans  and  some- 
thing to  cook.  In  fact,  we've  a  lot  of  shopping  to 
do,  and  I  propose  that  we  give  the  afternoon  to  it." 

Certain  phases  of  that  afternoon's  shopping 
embarrassed  Dayton.  He  had  planned  to  remain 
outside  or  at  a  different  counter  while  she  bought 
this  and  that.  But  she  would  not  let  him  off. 
She  would  not  buy  so  much  as  a  handkerchief 
without  his  direct  approval.  So  he  blushed  be- 
comingly and,  with  his  thumb  and  forefinger 
brought  very  timidly  into  use,  approved  the 
quality  of  this  white  garment  or  that.  He  sat  in 
judgment  upon  stockings  and  hats,  upon  dresses 
and  gloves,  upon  pots  and  pans  and  plated  knives 
and  forks,  and  china  and  table-linen. 

124 


His  Daughter 

And  when  at  last  they  returned  to  the  studio 
they  had  spent  several  hundred  francs  and  their 
cab  resembled  a  moving-van.  And  Claire,  al- 
though her  conscience  troubled  her  because  of 
the  fearful  sums  of  money  that  had  been  spent, 
was  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  delight. 

When  they  went  to  Gibier's  for  their  dinner 
that  night  she  would  have  on  nothing  that  was 
not  brand-new — brand-new  from  top  to  toe.  She 
was  so  happy  that  she  could  not  bear  it.  Dark- 
ness was  falling.  She  flung  her  arms  round  Day- 
ton's neck  and,  closely  and  tenderly  interlaced, 
they  finished  the  drive  home. 

She  spoiled  him  frightfully.  No  doubt  of  that ! 
The  little  kitchen  she  transformed  into  a  scientific 
laboratory  devoted  to  the  fine  art  of  cooking. 
She  had  more  than  her  share  of  the  Latin  genius. 
The  bright  lexicon  of  her  housekeeping  did  not 
contain  the  word  "waste."  Every  day  she  went 
to  market,  a  basket  on  her  arm,  railed  at  the  mar- 
ket women,  browbeat  them,  beat  down  their  prices 
and  returned  with  just  enough  raw  supplies,  and 
no  more,  to  furnish  forth  the  delicious  meals  of 
the  day.  And  always  she  brought  back  with  her 
a  few  cents'  worth  of  fresh  flowers. 

Dayton  fared  exquisitely.  Twinges  of  con- 
125 


His  Daughter 

science  visited  him  with  less  and  less  frequency, 
until,  the  final  blunting  of  his  moral  sense  being 
accomplished,  he  accepted  his  life  with  Claire  as 
a  perfectly  satisfactory  solution  of  all  the  prob- 
lems to  which  the  flesh  and  spirit  are  heir. 

Whatever  his  impulse  was,  she  aided  and  abetted 
him.  She  encouraged  him  to  work,  she  encour- 
aged him  to  play,  she  encouraged  him  to  make 
love  to  her.  He  became  peaceful,  contented, 
easily  pleased,  patient,  and  hard-working,  so  that 
once  more  he  began  to  make  progress  in  the  arts, 
especially  in  modelling.  Sometimes  he  thought 
that  he  would  "chuck  everything"  and  become  a 
sculptor.  To  model  from  he  had  now  a  very 
beautiful  model  and  one  whose  presence  in  the 
studio  did  not  embarrass  him. 

Posing  is  very  hard  work;  but  Claire  was  a 
glutton  for  work,  and  idleness  was  hateful  to  her. 
So  while  she  posed  she  knitted,  or  did  the  house- 
hold mending,  or  embroidered  her  monogram  ex- 
quisitely. 

They  were  as  happy  as  two  birds  in  spring. 
For  both  of  them  were  good-natured;  their  im- 
pulses were  generous,  they  laughed  easily,  they 
were  chock-full  of  vitality,  and  they  were  in  love 
with  each  other.  Their  loves  differed  only  in  the 
power  to  endure.  Claire  would  never  love  an- 

126 


His  Daughter 

other  man;  Dayton  would  not  always  love  Claire. 
But  she  did  not  know  this,  and  he  didn't.  And 
so  it  did  not  in  any  way  disturb  their  happiness. 
Neither  did  satiety  cast  any  shadow  over  their 
happiness.  It  seemed  as  if  they  must  have  drunk 
at  the  fountain  of  eternal  youth. 

One  morning  Dayton  devoted  to  casting  up  his 
accounts.  For  two  hours  he  chewed  a  pencil  and 
made  figures  on  innumerable  sheets  of  paper,  and 
wriggled  uncomfortably  and  mussed  his  hair. 
Then  he  gave  a  shout  of  laughter  that  brought 
Claire,  laughing,  from  the  kitchen. 

"Come  and  sit  on  my  knees,"  he  commanded, 
"and  look  at  this." 

"Well,  what  is  this  famous  this?" 

"The  details  are  not  for  a  mere  girl  to  under- 
stand. But  these  are  the  facts:  To  have  you  sit- 
ting on  my  knees,  to  be  inspired  by  your  beauty 
to  do  better  work,  to  eat  better  food  than  can  be 
bought  in  the  restaurants,  to  have  flowers  in  the 
house,  contentment,  laughter,  and  love-making, 
costs  me  in  cold  cash  just  exactly  half  what  it  cost 
me  to  live  miserably  alone." 

He  threw  down  his  accounts  and  his  arms  tight- 
ened about  her. 

"Be  sensible!" 

"I  won't !"  He  grinned  at  her  like  a  mischjev- 
127 


His  Daughter 

ous  schoolboy.  "I  have  declared  a  holiday.  We 
are  to  close  the  studio  for  a  few  days  and  go  to- 
Tours  where  I  went  to  school.  And  we  shall  also 
visit  Poictiers  and  all  the  wonderful  chateaux  in 
Touraine.  And  I'll  sketch  and  you'll  pick  flow- 
ers. .  .  ." 

And  the  next  day  to  Tours  they  went,  and  from 
that  centre  they  visited  Loches  and  Chinon  and 
Chenonceaux  and  Amboise  and  other  great  and 
lordly  houses,  and  spent  a  day  and  a  night  in 
Poictiers,  and  Dayton  filled  a  book  with  sketches, 
and  they  lay  under  trees  and  looked  through  the 
leaves  at  the  sky,  and  waded  in  the  Loire,  and  just 
didn't  get  into  a  quicksand,  and  they  made  love 
and  bought  decorative  odds  and  ends  for  the 
studio,  and  on  the  way  back  to  Paris  they  stopped 
off  at  Blois  and  there,  as  luck  would  have  it,  as 
they  crossed  the  court  to  climb  the  famous  stair- 
case of  Francis  the  First,  Dayton  saw  coming 
toward  them  his  sister,  the  Comtesse  de  Sejour, 
and  a  party  of  friends. 

The  comtesse  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance, 
and  with  the  utmost  naturalness  and  good  breed- 
ing cut  her  brother  dead  as  a  stone.  Dayton  was 
thoroughly  flustered.  Claire  looked  into  his  face 
and  had  a  pang  of  fear.  She  could  not  have  said 
why. 

128 


His  Daughter 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing,  only  that  lady  is  my  sister.  ...  I 
.  .  .  do  you  mind  waiting?  I  really  ought  to 
speak  to  her." 

The  comtesse  heard  the  sound  of  his  big  steps 
on  the  pavement,  looked  over  her  shoulder, 
stopped,  turned,  and  with  a  comical  little  grim- 
ace, waited  for  him  to  come  up.  He  bowed  over 
her  small  gloved  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"I  thought,"  she  said,  "that  it  would  be  easier 
for  you  to  be  cut.  I  now  understand  why  you 
have  refused  all  my  sisterly  and  affectionate  invi- 
tations to  visit  us.  Let  me  congratulate  you  upon 
your  good  taste.  She's  really  very  pretty  and 


smart. 
it 


She's  a  brick!"  said  Dayton  simply.  "And 
a  great  help." 

"Of  course.  But  you  mustn't  abandon  your 
family  entirely,  or  we  shall  begin  to  think  that 
the  affair  is  serious.  I  have  had  a  disquieting 
letter  from  Aunt  Louise.  She  says  that  our 
mamma  is  not  at  all  well." 

"The  last  letter  I  had  from  mamma  she  seemed 
in  excellent  spirits.  .  .  .  It's  not  serious?" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  that  you 
can  put  a  name  to;  perhaps  it's  nothing;  but  I 
can't  help  feeling  worried.  .  .  .  It's  very  nice 

129 


His  Daughter 

to  have  had  this  fleeting  glimpse  of  you.  And  I 
hope  you  will  manage  to  leave  Paris  for  a  few  days 
and  move  about  a  little  in  your  own  milieu." 

For  both  Dayton  and  Claire  D'Avril  the  day 
was  pretty  well  spoiled;  but  for  the  depression 
which  had  come  over  Dayton's  spirits  he  apolo- 
gized. 

"My  mother  isn't  at  all  well,"  he  said.  "That 
is  what  depresses  me.  I  can't  help  feeling  that  I 
ought  to  go  home  for  a  while.  My  sister  can't 
go  very  well.  She  has  her  children  and  her  hus- 
band to  think  of." 

"But  you — you  are  free  as  air!" 

"That's  not  true.  And  you  know  it.  Every 
minute  that  I  was  away  from  you  would  be  an 
age.  And  of  course  I'd  come  back  just  as  soon 
as  I  possibly  could." 

Claire  D'Avril's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she 
uttered  a  prophecy.  She  pressed  her  hand  to 
her  heart — hard,  as  if  that  organ  was  hurting  her 
and  she  wished  to  repress  its  beating,  and  she 
said:  "If  you  go,  you  will  never  come  back — to 
me." 

He  did  his  best  to  comfort  her.  It  was  a  false 
alarm,  probably.  There  wasn't  one  chance  in  a 
hundred  that  he  would  have  to  go — not  for  a  long 
time,  anyway.  Didn't  she  know  that  he  loved 

130 


His  Daughter 

her  ?  But)  for  all  his  assurances  and  reassurances, 
they  returned  to  the  studio  in  dismal  spirits. 
Their  little  heaven  could  never  again  be  quite  the 
same,  for  it  had  established  contact  with  the 
world. 

That  night  Dayton  dreamed  that  a  heavy 
weight  was  crushing  him  to  death.  He  wakened 
in  a  quake  of  fear.  And  when  that  had  passed, 
smiled  to  discover  that  it  was  Claire's  arm  across 
his  chest  that  had  caused  his  dream.  Because  of 
the  weight  of  her  arm  he  could  not  get  to  sleep 
again.  He  would  have  moved  it,  but  for  the  fear 
of  waking  her  and  hurting  her  feelings.  She,  in 
her  subconscious  mind,  was  holding  him  so  that 
he  could  never  get  away. 

Claire  D'Avril  cared  very  little  for  jewelry;  but 
one  day  in  the  Palais  Royal  she  lingered  some- 
what longingly  over  a  collection  of  Oriental  nov- 
elties displayed  in  the  window  of  a  very  small 
shop.  The  dull  solidity  of  the  semiprecious 
stones  in  their  heavy  barbaric  settings  seemed  to 
exercise  a  greater  appeal  to  her  imagination  than 
the  gayer,  brighter,  and  more  sparkling  gems. 
In  particular,  a  chain  for  the  neck,  set  at  intervals 
with  scarabs  of  lapis  lazuli,  touched  her  fancy. 
But  when  the  enamoured  Dayton  offered  to  buy  it 


His  Daughter 

for  her,  she  would  not  hear  of  any  such  extrava- 
gance. To  be  covered,  except  when  one  posed, 
was  decent  and  necessary;  but  to  be  foolishly 
adorned  was  calling  the  attention  of  Providence 
to  oneself;  it  was  inviting  criticism. 

But  the  next  day  Dayton  returned  secretly  to 
the  little  shop  and  bought  the  necklace.  Sunday 
was  her  birthday  and  he  intended  to  make  the 
gift  upon  that  auspicious  occasion.  In  the  mean- 
while, since  the  studio  had  no  reserves  from  Claire, 
it  would  be  necessary  to  hide  it.  He  could  not 
leave  it  with  his  bankers  (it  was  there  that  he  had 
disposed,  after  a  day  of  anxiety  lest  Claire  dis- 
cover them,  of  his  photographs  of  Dorothy  Gran- 
dison),  because  the  bank  would  not  be  open  on 
Sunday,  and  it  was  with  satisfaction  that  he  re- 
membered that  one  of  the  tiles  in  the  hearth  of 
the  studio's  fireplace  was  loose,  and  that  there 
was  a  hollow  in  the  cement  beneath. 

Claire  being  safely  at  work  in  her  kitchen,  he 
lifted  the  tile,  only  to  find  that  it  had  already 
been  made  use  of  as  a  hiding-place.  The  tile  had 
been  used  to  conceal  a  scrap  of  paper,  upon  which 
Claire  had  written  the  words:  "I  love  you." 

Dayton  substituted  the  necklace  for  the  paper, 
dropped  the  tile  back  into  place,  and  hurried  to 
the  kitchen. 

132 


His  Daughter 

Claire  was  kneading  dough.  Her  back  was 
toward  him.  The  sun  was  in  her  hair.  Her  round 
forearms  were  flecked  with  flour.  She  looked  at 
him  over  her  shoulder  and  he  craned  his  head 
forward  and  to  the  left  so  that  he  could  kiss  her 
on  the  mouth.  Then  he  showed  her  the  paper. 

"When  did  you  write  that?"  he  asked. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "do  you  remember  that  first 
day,  when  you  brought  me  in  out  of  the  rain  ?" 

"I  remember  it  with  shame." 

"With  shame?" 

"I've  always  thought  that,  if  I'd  gone  down 
on  my  knees  and  begged  ever  so  prettify  and 
threatened  to  kill  myself  if  you  went  away,  that 
you  might  have  stayed.  And  I  should  have  been 
spared  all  those  weary  weeks  of  waiting  and 
anxiety  and  distress." 

She  laughed  a  throaty,  happy  laugh. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "that  day  you  remember  you 
went  for  a  cab.  While  you  were  gone  I  wrote 
that  and  hid  it  under  the  tile." 

"If  I  had  only  found  it!" 

"It's  the  only  love-letter  I  ever  wrote,  and  when 
I  wrote  it,  it  didn't  mean  quite  what  it  would 
mean  now." 

"I  shall  always  keep  it,"  said  Dayton  fervently. 

But  he  didn't  always  keep  it.  Neither  did  he 
133 


His  Daughter 

consciously  destroy  it  or  throw  it  away.  It 
simply  disappeared  from  among  his  belong- 
ings, as  such  things  usually  do  if  they  are  given 
time. 

On  Sunday  morning  Dayton  was  the  first  to 
wake.  The  moment  Claire,  too,  had  opened  her 
eyes,  he  bestowed  upon  her  twenty-two  great 
kisses,  for  that  was  her  age,  and  a  twenty-third 
to  grow  on,  and  then  they  made  their  plans  for 
the  day. 

It  was  to  be  a  holiday.  There  should  be  no 
going  to  market,  no  cooking,  not  even  of  break- 
fast, no  dishwashing,  no  work  of  any  kind.  There 
should  be  nothing  but  dressings  up,  and  goings 
forth,  and  gayety,  and  the  seeing  of  sights,  and  a 
drive  in  the  Bois  for  the  afternoon,  and  for  the 
evening  a  theatre,  something  that  made  you  put 
back  your  head  and  laugh,  and  that  would  have 
been  improper  in  any  language  but  French.  . 

Like  all  days  devoted  entirely  to  amusement, 
that  day  passed  slowly;  but  dusk  came  at  last 
and  they  returned  to  the  studio  to  dress  for  din- 
ner. 

When  Claire  was  dressed,  Dayton  affected  to 
find  fault  with  her. 

"It  isn't  that  your  dress  isn't  pretty  and  be- 
coming," fye  said,  "but  there  is  something  lack- 

134 


His  Daughter 

ing.  Just  look  in  the  glass;  perhaps  you'll  be 
able  to  say  what  it  is." 

She  looked  in  the  glass;  head  on  one  side,  head 
on  the  other  side.  With  the  aid  of  the  hand-glass, 
she  had  a  look  at  her  profile  and  her  back.  And 
there  was  nothing  wrong  that  she  could  see.  In- 
deed, it  must  be*  confessed  that  she  found  herself 
rather  charming  to  look  at.  But  because  there 
was  some  hidden  fault  to  be  discovered,  she  had  a 
puzzled  expression  which  afforded  Dayton  much 
gratification.  Finally  she  defended  herself. 

"There  is  nothing  wrong,"  she  said,  "absolutely 
nothing.  The  dress  is  blue,  which  is  your  favorite 
color.  It  must  be  a  charming  dress;  you  chose  it 
yourself.  The  stockings  are  mates.  Each  hook 
is  in  its  appointed  eye;  and  except  that  I  am  nat- 
urally plain,  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me." 

"Yes,  there  is,"  said  Dayton.  "You  are  a  re- 
flection on  my  generosity.  You  lack  that  little 
something  which  would  make  me  appear  to  ad- 
vantage in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Look! 
Hunt !  Search !  .  .  .  That  something  exists.  It 
is  in  the  studio,  hidden !" 

Eager  as  a  child,  she  rushed  into  the  studio  and 
began  to  turn  things  upside  down  and  inside  out. 
Dayton  stood  at  the  piano,  watched  her  progress 
over  his  shoulder,  and  heartened  or  disheartened 

135 


His  Daughter 

her  by  a  loud  or  soft  playing  of  French  nursery 
tunes. 

She  approached  the  fireplace.  She  had  looked 
everywhere.  Dayton  was  playing  "Malb rook"  ff. 
She  dropped  to  her  knees.  He  switched  into 
"The  Marseillaise".///.  She  lifted  the  tile.  And 
then  she  gave  a  loud  cry  of  joy. 

"Oh,  the  blue  necklace,"  she  cried,  "to  match 
the  blue  dress!  The  beautiful  blue  necklace!" 

In  a  twinkling  she  had  clasped  it  about  her 
neck,  admired  it  (and  herself)  in  the  mantel  mir- 
ror, and  embraced  Dayton  so  vehemently  that  he 
had  to  brush  his  hair  all  over  again  and  retie  his 
tie. 

And  thereafter,  as  richer  women  cling  to  their 
pearls,  so  Claire  D'Avril  clung  to  her  blue  scarabs. 
Even  when  she  posed  for  him  she  would  not  take 
the  necklace  off.  She  slept  in  it.  Hidden  under 
her  plain  "Go-to-market  dress,"  it  went  to  market 
with  her.  It  became  her  fetich,  her  talisman. 
All  the  other  things  that  he  had  given  her  put  to- 
gether had  not  afforded  her  so  much  happiness. 
She  talked  to  it  as  if  it  were  alive.  She  could  not 
have  valued  a  wedding-ring  more  highly. 

Also,  from  this  time  on,  the  hollow  under  the 
tile  played  a  regulated  part  in  their  lives.  They 
liked  to  tell  each  other  how  much  they  loved  each 

136 


His  Daughter 

other  in  all  possible  ways.  The  hollow  under  the 
tile  became  the  regular  repository  for  gifts,  for 
letters : 

DAYTON  TO  CLAIRE 

Claire,  my  well-beloved,  when  you  come  back  from 
market  I  shall  be  at  the  paint-shop.  I  am  all  out  of 
ultramarine.  Each  word  in  this  note  is  a  hug,  each  letter 
a  kiss.  If  the  piano-tuner  comes  before  I  return,  tell  him 
that  middle  C  sticks  like  a  leech. 

CLAIRE  TO  DAYTON 

I  don't  know  where  you've  gone,  my  whole  world.  You 
have  left  no  word.  I  have  dropped  a  tear  in  the  pudding. 
But  the  Blue  Necklace  says  that  there  was  no  time  to 
write ;  that  you  left  upon  a  sudden  emergency.  Soon  I 
shall  hear  your  feet  upon  the  stair.  I  live  to  listen. 

DAYTON  TO  CLAIRE 

Brightness  of  Days,  I  have  to  go  across  the  river  to  draw 
money  from  the  bank  and  to  get  my  letters.  I  shall  sit  by 
the  Marat  wastepaper  basket  to  read  them.  Don't  have 
anything  for  lunch  that  has  to  be  served  on  the  minute.  I 
may  be  a  little  late.  The  later  I  am  the  more  I  love  you. 

CLAIRE  TO  DAYTON 

All  my  Felicity,  I  have  snatched  a  moment's  time  to 
press  my  dress  and  look  at  my  necklace.  Next  to  you  I 
love  it  most  of  all  my  precious  possessions.  I  am  the 
happiest  woman  in  the  world. 

And  so  forth  and  so  on. 

137 


His  Daughter 

But  sometimes  Dayton  wrote  other  letters  that 
were  more  difficult  to  write.  And  there  was  the 
occasional  letter  which,  according  to  their  pact, 
he  was  allowed  (and  felt  obliged)  to  write  to 
Dorothy  Grandison.  But  he  did  not  write  these 
letters  in  the  studio.  He  wrote  them  on  a  client's 
desk  in  his  bank,  or  on  a  cafe  table,  Claire,. 'it  is 
true,  had  nothing  of  suspicion  in  her  generous 
nature,  and  would  have  asked  no  questions;  but 
still  he  preferred  to  keep  secret  from  her  the  fact 
that  he  corresponded  regularly  with  an  American 
girl  who  was  not  related  to  him. 

No  memory  that  he  had  of  Dorothy  had  any 
longer  the  power  to  thrill.  He  was  ashamed  of 
the  whole  episode.  He  was  ashamed  of  having 
cared  for  her  in  the  first  place;  of  having  stopped 
caring  in  the  second.  The  thought  that  she  might 
not  have  stopped  caring,  might  never  stop,  some- 
times tormented  him.  He  dreaded  that  inevi- 
table day  when  he  must  go  through  with  seeing 
her  again. 

In  every  way  Claire  D'Avril  had  still  the  power 
to  make  him  happy  and  contented.  If  her  simple 
nature  could  not  furnish  the  infinite  variety  of  a 
Cleopatra,  at  least  she  never  allowed  their  rela- 
tions to  sink  to  the  abased  levels  of  habit.  His 
last  kiss  would  thrill  her  as  his  first  had.  To  kiss 

138 


His  Daughter 

him  was  a  wonderful  privilege,  and  not  to  be  ex- 
ercised in  any  semidetached  mood. 

Dayton  did  not  like  to  face  the  future.  He 
knew  very  well  that  some  day  he  would  have  to 
part  with  Claire  D'Avril.  What  would  become 
of  her?  He  preferred  to  compromise  with  his 
logic,  to  live  in  the  present,  and  to  pretend  that 
the  present  was  going  to  last  forever. 

He  was  not  even  in  a  hurry  to  see  his  own 
country  again.  Paris  could  be  his  own  country 
just  as  well,  for  Paris  belongs  to  the  whole  world. 
Formerly  his  idea  of  success  was  honors,  rewards, 
praise,  money;  but  his  ideas  had  undergone  a 
change.  If  he  knew  that  he  was  doing  good  work, 
it  was  not  necessary  that  any  one  else  should 
know.  If  necessary,  let  the  honors,  the  rewards, 
and  the  praise  be  laid  upon  his  tombstone.  Claire 
D'Avril  should  always  be  at  hand  to  keep  him 
physically  contented  and  at  peace;  he  himself, 
working  steadily  and  with  his  whole  conscience, 
was  well  able  to  take  care  of  his  own  spiritual 
comfort.  The  reward  is  in  the  work,  not  in  the 
accomplishment.  They  would  find  somewhere  in 
the  country,  not  far  from  salt  water,  an  ideal  cot- 
tage in  a  grove  of  old  trees.  There  must  be  a 
garden  with  a  high  wall,  a  place  warm  with  sun- 
light and  soft  with  shade,  and  there  he  would 

139 


His  Daughter 

paint  wonderful  pictures  of  Claire  D'Avril,  with 
her  gorgeous  red  hair,  her  blue  eyes,  her  blue 
necklace,  and  her  splendid  white  body  dappled 
with  shadows. 

And  although  he  knew  that  these  dreams  could 
never  come  wholly  true,  he  shared  them  with 
Claire,  and  thus  did  her  an  injustice.  For  not 
only  was  there  in  store  for  her  poignant  regret  of 
the  things  that  had  been,  but  there  would  be 
added  still  more  poignant  regret  for  the  things 
that  might  have  been. 

"Listen." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  aren't  asleep  ?" 

Dayton  spoke  in  a  sleepy  voice. 

"No.     I'm  thinking." 

"What  about?" 

"Some  day  you  will  go  away." 

"Now,  don't  start  that" 

"But  if  you  knew  that  I  was  going  to  have 

>t 

•  .  . 

His  sleepiness  faded  and  left  Dayton  with  a 
clear  and  startled  mind. 

"Claire,  you  don't  mean  ..." 

"Oh,  no.  ...  I  was  only  thinking.  .  .  .  But 
there's  no  such  luck." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  think  so  much.  You 
frightened  me.  ..." 

"Would  it  be  so  very  frightful?" 
140 


His  Daughter 

"You  don't  understand.  It  ...  it  would  be 
out  of  the  question." 

Claire  did  not  revert  to  the  subject  openly. 
But  it  occupied  much  of  her  secret  thinking.  A 
few  days  passed  and  she  was  hardly  able  to  think 
of  anything  else.  She  had  no  reason  to  be  afraid 
of  Dayton;  but  she  simply  dared  not  tell  him  her 
suspicions. 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  confide  in  her  aunt, 
Madame  Legros.  For  this  one,  though  indolent 
and  in  no  way  admirable,  had  had  considerable 
experience  in  the  ways  of  Nature. 

"This  morning,"  she  said,  "do  you  mind  if  I 
go  to  my  uncle's  ?  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have 
been.  I'll  be  back  in  time  to  cook  lunch." 

"By  all  means  go,  if  you  wish,"  he  said.  "But 
start  as  soon  as  possible,  so  that  you  will  be  the 
sooner  back." 

With  mock  seriousness  he  gave  her  his  blessing, 
and  with  genuine  feeling  a  kiss. 

A  few  minutes  after  she  had  gone  there  was  a 
sharp  knocking  on  the  door.  It  was  the  con- 
cierge's wife  with  a  cablegram. 

Dayton  read  it,  and  felt  as  if  his  whole  life  had 
been  knocked  galley-west.  Only  one  thought  was 
absolutely  clear  in  his  mind.  He  must  get  by  the 
shortest  road  and  in  the  quickest  time  to  the  bed- 
side of  his  dying  mother. 


His  Daughter 

He  called  a  taxicab,  drove  to  the  office  of 
Thomas  Cook,  learned  that  he  could  catch  a  fast 
steamer  which  touched  at  Cherbourg;  dashed  into 
his  bank,  turned  the  remainder  of  his  letter  of 
credit  into  gold  and  notes,  telegraphed  his  sister, 
returned  at  breakneck  speed  to  the  studio,  flung 
his  clothes  into  a  trunk,  crammed  his  dress-suit 
case  full  of  necessaries,  paid  the  rent  till  the  first 
of  the  month,  waited  as  long  as  he  dared  for  Claire, 
and  while  he  waited,  hoping  against  hope  that 
she  would  return  in  time,  he  wrote  her  a  disjointed, 
almost  inarticulate  and  grief-stricken  letter.  Into 
this  letter  he  stuffed  all  the  money  he  could  possi- 
bly spare.  At  least  it  would  keep  her  until  he 
returned  or  could  send  her  more.  ...  A  moment 
came,  beyond  which  he  dared  not  postpone  his 
dash  for  the  train.  .  .  .  After  some  hesitation, 
he  did  not  give  the  letter  for  Claire  into  the  keep- 
ing of  the  concierge  s  wife.  He  did  not  trust  her. 
Instead,  he  confided  it  to  the  hollow  under  the 
loose  tile. 

He  pushed  open  the  door  of  their  bedroom  and 
looked  in.  The  two  snow-white  pillows  seemed  to 
reproach  him.  A  lump  rose  in  his  throat  and 
almost  strangled  him.  ...  He  fought  against 
tears.  ...  It  was  pitiful,  pitiful,  that  he  had  to 
leave  her  like  this — his  Claire,  his  Claire  D'Avril, 
his  darling.  .  .  . 

142 


His  Daughter 

The  December  sky  lowered  over  Paris,  dark 
and  grim.  A  misty  rain  fell.  The  streets  were 
greasy;  the  river,  flowing  sombrely,  seemed  to 
speak  of  dead  things — dead  hopes,  dead  promises, 
dead  virtues.  And  the  sombre,  darkly  flowing  old 
river  seemed,  too,  to  speak  of  women,  unfortunate 
in  love,  to  whom  it  had  given  at  the  last  rest  and 
peace. 

Madame  Legros  had  turned  her  niece's  suspi- 
cions into  certainties. 

In  all  great  cities  there  are  men  and  women 
who  do  murder  daily  for  a  small  fee.  Claire 
D'Avril  knew  this.  And  if  Dayton  insisted,  she 
would  go  to  such  a  person  and  make  the  supreme 
sacrifice.  For  love  of  him  she  would  connive  at 
the  murder  of  her  own  child.  And  it  amounted 
to  that.  For  already  that  child  seemed  real  to  her. 

Such  were  her  thoughts  on  descending  the  four 
flights  of  stairs  from  her  aunt's  apartment.  But 
in  the  street  the  air  was  fresher,  her  courage  rose, 
and  she  began  to  fight  for  the  continued  existence 
of  the  child.  She  would  face  her  lover  boldly. 
She  would  stand  up  for  her  rights;  the  right  of  a 
woman  to  bear  children.  Even  women  who  marry 
for  convenience  have  that  right;  much  stronger, 
then,  is  the  right  of  the  woman  who  loves  and  is 
faithful. 


His  Daughter 

Already  the  child  seemed  real  to  her — a  chubby, 
adorable,  important  personage,  an  arbiter  of  des- 
tinies. In  time  Dayton  would  love  his  child  as 
much  as  she  did;  and  then — for  he  was  an  honor- 
able and  loving  man — perhaps  he  would  change 
theirs  into  a  real  marriage. 

She  looked  upward,  and  her  thoughts  gilded  the 
dark  clouds  that  lowered  over  Paris.  She  rested, 
leaned  against  a  parapet  and  looked  downward 
on  the  dark,  hurrying  river.  But  the  river's  mes- 
sage to  Claire  D'Avril  was  not  an  invitation  to 
death.  Instead  of  grim  messages,  it  drew  bright 
pictures  for  her.  She  seemed  to  see  a  very  little 
child  who  fished  with  a  very  long  bamboo  pole; 
she  seemed  to  see  a  little  shaggy  dog  that  went 
joyously  into  the  water  to  bring  out  sticks  that 
the  little  child  had  thrown  in.  ... 

She  went  on  slowly.  A  man,  with  the  evident 
intention  of  scraping  an  acquaintance  with  her, 
drew  close  and  then  turned  aside  as  if  abashed 
by  the  sheer  beauty  and  serenity  of  her  expres- 
sion. 

"At  first,"  she  was  thinking,  "he  will  not  like 
it;  but  after  a  time  he  will  get  used  to  the  idea, 
and  soon  his  tenderness  and  pity  and  love  will 
get  the  better  of  all  other  considerations.  And 
then  he  will  be  glad,  and  then  suddenly  he  will 

'44 


His  Daughter 

take  us  in  his  arms  and  hold  us  so  close — so  close 
that  all  our  three  hearts  will  beat  as  one." 

How  should  she  go  about  telling  him  ?  How 
best  could  she  disarm  him  ?  Oh,  he  was  so  ten- 
der! She  had  nothing  to  fear,  and  still  she  was 
afraid.  But  he  would  be  just.  He  would  not 
lay  the  blame  all  on  her.  And,  indeed,  when  it 
came  to  that.  .  .  .  No.  He  would  assume  his 
full  share  of  responsibility.  He  would  say,  as  he 
often  said  about  things  that  hadn't  turned  out 
just  as  he  wished:  "No  matter.  It's  happened; 
it  can't  be  unhappened." 

She  wondered  if  he  would  be  entirely  depressed 
by  the  news;  or  if  he  would  share  in  her  excite- 
ment. She  couldn't  deny  that  she  was  excited 
and  a  little  rattled.  It  was  wonderful  to  be 
turned  all  at  once  from  an  ordinary  human  being 
into  a  miracle.  Should  she  tell  him  at  once  ?  Or 
should  she  wait  until  it  was  night  and  she  was  in 
his  arms  ?  And  suppose  she  did  decide  to  wait 
until  night,  could  she  in  the  meantime  keep  her 
secret  ?  The  news  surely  was  in  her  face.  .  .  . 

The  plate-glass  window  of  a  dark  shop  reflected 
her  face.  She  thought:  "How  big  my  eyes  look !" 

Presently  she  came  to  the  news-stand  where 
she  had  sold  papers  to  all  kinds  of  people  in  all 
kinds  of  weather.  That  was  over,  God  be  blessed  ! 

US 


His  Daughter 

She  stopped  to  speak  with  Mimi  Bonheur,  who 
now  presided. 

"How  goes  it,  Mimi  ?" 

"Well  enough.     And  you  ?    Always  happy  ?" 

"Always  happy." 

"You're  still  together,  then !  Why,  it's  a  regu- 
lar marriage !  I've  seen  him.  He  is  very  hand- 
some." 

"He  is  very  good;  and  some  day  he  will  be  a 
great  artist.  His  color  sense  isn't  good.  It's  like 
my  ear  for  music.  I  can't  keep  in  tune.  But 
you  should  see  the  portrait  he  has  made  of  me  in 
clay.  It  is  so  like  me  that  it  frightens  me." 

"So  you  pose,  too  ?" 

"I  try  to  help  him  in  every  way  that  I  can." 

"Well,"  said  Mimi  frankly,  "I  envy  you.  You 
have  all  the  luck.  But  ..." 

"But  what?" 

"It  can't  last  forever,  you  know.  You  are  the 
same  age,  or  nearly.  He  will  still  be  }^oung  when 
you  are  growing  old.  Take  my  advice  and  don't 
spend  all  the  money  he  gives  you.  Suppose  you 
returned  one  day  to  find  your  bird  flown;  and  sup- 
pose that  you  had  no  money,  and  suppose  that 
you  had  besides  yourself  another  to  provide  for." 

Mimi  Bonheur  looked  intently  into  Claire 
D'Avril's  eyes,  and  broke  into  a  laugh  that  had 

146 


His  Daughter 

in  it  at  once  cynicism  and  friendly  feeling.  Then 
she  said: 

"You  have  told  me  nothing;  it's  a  secret  if  you 
say  so." 

Claire  D'Avril  had  blushed  hotly. 

"But — but  I've  only  just  learned  myself,"  she 
said. 

"But  — but  — but!"  Mimi  mocked.  "The 
trouble  with  you  is  you  never  studied  lying. 
Your  secret  is  in  your  eyes.  You  look  like  one 
of  the  Annunciations  in  the  Louvre.  Does  he 
know?" 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  tell  him." 

"He  will  be  furious.     But  good  luck  to  you!" 

"What  has  happened,"  said  Claire,  strong  to 
defend  her  lover,  "is  good.  He  will  be  glad,  just 
as  I  am  glad." 

She  came  at  last  to  the  house  in  which  the 
studio  was,  and  let  herself  in  with  her  pass-key. 

The  wife  of  the  concierge,  fat,  a  sloven,  stony- 
eyed,  was  in  the  hall. 

"Bonjour,  Madame  Sidon." 

"Bonjour,  mademoiselle." 

"Monsieur  est  chez  lui?" 

"Monsieur  est  sorti." 

Claire  D'AvriPs  heart  sank,  she  could  not  have 
said  why.  The  stony-eyed  Madame  Sidon  was 


His  Daughter 

looking  her  over,  as  a  butcher,  having  sharpened 
his  knife,  surveys  the  body  of  a  calf. 

"When  did  he  go  out?" 

"An  hour  ago.  But  don't  disturb  yourself. 
You  can  stay." 

"Naturally  I  can  stay,  madame;  but  just  what 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  He  has  paid  the  rent  till  the 
first  of  the  year,  and  he  has  put  his  two  trunks 
on  a  taxicab  and  departed  in  a  great  hurry." 

"It's  not  true!" 

Madame  Sidon  thrust  her  massive  face  close  to 
Claire's.  Her  face  was  red  with  the  anger  of  the 
habitual  liar  accused  of  lying,  and  her  breath 
smelt  of  undigested  liquor. 

"You  tell  me  I  lie,  do  you — you  street  woman 
— you  dirty  girl!  Say  one  more  word  and  I'll 
bust  your  face  in." 

Claire  D'Avril  did  not  at  once  say  that  word. 
It  was  not  in  vain  that  she  had  been  brought  up 
in  full  view  of  all  that  goes  on  in  the  gutter.  She 
had  the  knowledge,  and  the  courage,  and  the 
physical  strength  of  her  class.  She  was  not  afraid 
of  Madame  Sidon.  If  it  came  to  blows — very 
well,  let  it  come  to  blows.  She  stood  her  ground 
then,  and  smiled  a  cold  and  superior  smile. 

"Madame  Sidon"  she  said,  "too  much  wine 
148 


His  Daughter 

makes  too  much  blood  in  the  head.  Any  excite- 
ment is  to  be  avoided.  Exert  yourself,  fly  into  a 
passion,  a  vein  bursts,  and  all's  over.  .  .  .  And 
now  let  me  pass.  You  hate  me;  but  I  do  not  hate 
you.  I  give  you  good  advice.  If  you  are  very, 
very  careful,  you  may  live  for  a  year  or  two  longer. 
And  listen:  while  I  remain  in  this  house,  you 
shall  treat  me  with  respect.  ..." 

She  had  spoken  with  a  kind  of  cold  and  re- 
strained ferocity,  which  had  had  the  effect  of 
frightening  Madame  Sidon  almost  into  that  fit  of 
apoplexy  during  which  she  was  eventually  to  suc- 
cumb. 

Claire  D'Avril  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs,  entered 
the  studio,  and  closed  the  door  after  her.  A  few 
moments  later  she  came  to  the  landing  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  and  called  to  Madame  Sidon. 

"Did  Monsieur  Dayton  leave  no  message  for 
me?" 

"Not  one  single  word,  mademoiselle." 

"There  is  a  telegram.    When  did  it  come?" 

"It  was  immediately  after  receiving  it  that  he 
began  his  preparations  for  departure." 

The  cable  being  in  English,  was  Greek  to  Claire. 

She  went  out,  holding  the  cable  in  her  hand, 
and  made  a  tour  of  the  near-by  shops,  trying  to 
find  some  one  who  knew  enough  English  to  trans- 

149 


His  Daughter 

late  it  for  her.  But  the  man  who  advertised  him- 
self as  "English  Pharmacy"  must  have  referred 
to  the  origin  of  the  drugs  which  he  had  to  sell 
rather  than  to  his  own  linguistic  abilities,  and  the 
shop  which  displayed  in  gilt  letters  "English 
Spoken  Here"  had  a  proprietor  who,  though  he 
actually  did  speak  several  languages  (very  badly), 
was  unable  to  read  a  word  in  any  of  them,  being 
stone-blind. 

Well,  she  could  cross  the  river.  English  really 
was  spoken  in  most  of  the  big  shops.  But  she 
did  not  have  to  go  so  far.  She  saw  an  old  man 
with  a  long  white  beard,  who  peered  through  its 
dirty  window  at  the  dirty  contents  of  an  antique 
shop.  And  she  knew  that  he  was  an  Englishman. 
And  he  was  too  old  to  be  alarmed  at  being  ad- 
dressed by  a  pretty  girl.  He  smiled  and  even 
wagged  his  head  up  and  down.  His  French  was 
almost  as  bad  as  his  voice  was  clear  and  beautiful. 

"  You  must  sail  at  once  if  you  are  to  reach  home 
in  time" 

That  was  what  the  cable  said. 

"It's  his  mother,"  Claire  exclaimed,  "she's 
dying.  And  so  he  had  to  start  at  once." 

The  old  gentleman  wagged  his  head  up  and 
down,  and  said  the  French  for  "Quite  so — quite 
so." 


His  Daughter 

Claire  thanked  him,  and  returned  to  the  studio. 
She  moved  like  a  sleep-walker.  Why  had  he  gone 
without  leaving  any  word  ?  There  must  be  a 
mistake.  He  wasn't  the  man  to  lose  his  presence 
of  mind,  to  forget  her  entirely  in  the  hurry  of  de- 
parture. At  least  he  would  see  that  she  had  his 
address,  so  that  she  could  write  to  him. 

She  pressed  her  forehead  against  the  cold  plas- 
ter wall,  and  thought  and  thought. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  It  was  the 
concierge  himself  who  entered. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"It  is  this:  that  although  the  rent  has  been 
paid  until  the  first  of  the  year,  there  is  a  gentle- 
man, an  artist,  who  has  had  his  eye  on  this  suite 
and  who  would  like  to  move  in  at  once.  I  thought 
that  perhaps  you  and  he  could  come  to  some 
agreement  that  would  be  advantageous  to  you 
both." 

"You  mean  that  he  would  pay  me  something 
to  vacate  at  once  ?  Very  well.  I  will  think  of  it." 

"He  is  in  the  house  at  this  very  moment.  If 
you  could  spare  him  a  moment." 

"Very  well.     Send  him  to  me." 

She  waited,  her  back  to  the  fireplace  and  one 
foot  actually  resting  on  that  loose  tile  in  the 
hearth  beneath  which  was  a  small  fortune  in 


His  Daughter 

bank-notes,  and  better,  words  of  explanation  and 
hope  and  courage  and  of  faithfulness  and  love. 

The  tile  creaked  under  her  foot.  Was  it  a  mes- 
sage ?  Was  it  the  warm  words  beneath  demand- 
ing to  be  read,  to  be  taken  to  her  heart  ?  "It  is 
cold  here,"  they  may  have  been  saying.  "Oh, 
take  us  up,  take  us  up,  the  loving  ones,  the  tender 
ones.  Read  us  with  your  great  blue  eyes.  And 
then,  oh,  then,  lay  us  beneath  the  blue  necklace 
against  your  warm  and  friendly  heart." 

But  Claire  D'Avril  heard  only  an  approaching 
of  swift,  light  feet.  She  stepped  forward  and  the 
tile  creaked  no  more. 


IV 


"T'M  not  disturbing  you  ?" 

A  Though  Claire  D'Avril's  heart  was  break- 
ing, she  smiled  a  little  and  said  that  he  was  not 
disturbing  her  in  the  least. 

He  had  a  bold,  dominating  sort  of  face.  He 
made  her  think  of  a  condor  that  she  had  once 
seen  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  A  bird  of  prey 
he  looked,  and  a  beast  of  prey,  too;  for  when 
he  moved  it  was  with  the  swift-considered  grace 
of  a  panther,  and  he  was  seldom  still.  His  hair, 
bright  and  strong-growing,  though  not  a  light 
shade  of  brown,  was  in  vivid  contrast  with  his 
black,  gayly  arched  eyebrows  and  the  bright  black 
eyes  beneath.  He  looked  at  once  like  a  hawk,  a 
panther,  and  a  gambler. 

His  voice  was  even,  cool  as  water,  and  beauti- 
fully modulated. 

"I  am  Arnold  Charnowski,  madame,"  he  said, 
"and  always  at  your  service.  Monsieur  Sidon  has 
intimated  that  you  may  be  willing  to  sublet?" 

"As  to  that — yes,"  said  Claire  D'Avril,  "on 
certain  conditions." 

153 


His  Daughter 

"That  is  understood.  I  may  look  through  the 
rooms  ?" 

"Of  course." 

A  glance  into  the  kitchen  and  a  glance  into  the 
bedroom  sufficed  him. 

"I  am  satisfied,"  he  said.  "And  the  condi- 
tions ?" 

"There  are  certain  things,"  she  said,  "which 
M.  Dayton,  who,  because  of  his  mother's  illness, 
has  had  to  leave  in  a  great  hurry  for  America, 
was  unable  to  dispose  of— drawings,  paintings — 
that  statue — "  It  was  swathed  loosely  in  damp 
cloths.  "You  would  have  to  let  these  things  re- 
main until  some  word  concerning  them  came 
from  him." 

"Well,"  said  Arnold  Charnowski,  "I  don't 
mind.  They  are  workmanlike,  if  not  inspired." 

He  stepped  quickly  across  to  the  statue  and,  in 
spite  of  a  cry  of  protest  from  Claire,  boldly  re- 
moved its  swaddling-clothes. 

"Aha!"  he  exclaimed,  "yourself!"  His  bold 
eyes  sought  hers. 

"He  has  told  the  truth  ?"  he  asked.  "You  are 
like  that  ?  Most  women,  without  clothes,  are 
simply  ridiculous.  But  you,  you  must  be  simply 
beautiful." 

In  Claire's  mind  resentment  and  humiliation 
154 


His  Daughter 

fought  for  the  mastery.  But  Charnowski  per- 
ceived that  he  had  offended  her,  and  at  once 
changed  the  subject. 

"The  utensils  in  the  kitchen — they  are  yours? 
The  furnishings?" 

"The  furnishings  are  Monsieur  Dayton's.  The 
utensils  I  could  let  you  have  at  a  price.  I  know 
what  each  article  cost,  and  after  making  a  proper 
allowance  for  wear " 

"I  leave  all  that  to  you,5*  said  Charnowski.  "I 
am  not  rich,  but  I  do  not  haggle.  Things  that  I 
want  and  am  unable  to  pay  for  I  simply  take." 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  all  Claire  D'Avril's 
business  instincts  to  the  fore,  they  discussed  the 
terms  upon  which  she  should  vacate  the  studio. 
True  to  his  word,  Arnold  Charnowski  did  not 
haggle.  He  merely  said,  from  time  to  time :  "That 
is  a  sum  which  I  am  able  to  pay,"  and,  from  time 
to  time,  he  smiled  as  if  he  were  enjoying  himself. 
Only  once  was  he  at  a  momentary  loss  for  an  an- 
swer. She  had  broken  off  in  the  midst  of  a  calcu- 
lation and  suddenly  asked  him  if  he  was  an  artist. 

"Why,  yes — of  course,"  he  had  answered,  and 
then,  his  eyes  narrowing,  had  added:  "I  am  a 
sculptor.  And  just  at  the  moment  I  am  hunting 
Paris  high  and  low  for  a  model.  You,  I  suppose, 
don't  pose  for  every  one  who  comes  along  ?" 

155 


His  Daughter 

"I  have  never  posed  for  any  one  but  Monsieur 
Dayton,"  she  said.  And  a  few  moments  later 
they  had  arranged  their  terms. 

"It  is  understood,  then,"  he  said.  "You  will 
move  out  to-day,  and  I  shall  move  in  to-morrow. 
Monsieur  Dayton's  possessions  will  receive  the 
best  of  care.  You  will  come  sometime,  I  hope, 
to  see  how  they  are  getting  on  ?  And  now  let  me 
thank  you  for  all  your  courtesy."  He  lifted  her 
hand  to  his  lips.  At  the  door  he  turned,  and 
came  swiftly  back  to  her. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "it  is  only  because  the 
matter  seems  urgent  to  me  that  I  venture,  upon 
the  strength  of  so  short  an  acquaintance,  to  make 
an  attempt  upon  your  confidence.  The  atmos- 
phere of  this  atelier  reeks  of  tragedy.  For  God's 
sake  tell  me  what  has  happened  and  if  there  is 
anything  that  I  can  do  to  help  you." 

At  that  moment  he  did  not  look  like  a  bird- 
beast  of  prey,  but  like  some  impulsive  and  chival- 
rous dragon-slayer  of  the  Golden  Age.  His  voice 
would  have  charmed  away  from  a  child  its  stick 
of  candy.  And  before  Claire  D'Avril  knew  what 
she  was  doing  she  was  telling  him  the  whole  story 
of  her  relations  with  Dayton  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end.  She  talked  rapidly,  swaying  slightly, 
her  hands  on  her  hips,  her  head  thrown  back.  All 

156 


His  Daughter 

these  emotions  which  she  had  begun  to  impound 
at  the  first  news  of  Dayton's  departure  found 
tongue.  Her  speech  became  torrential,  and  as 
she  approached  the  end  of  her  story  there  began 
to  mingle  with  her  words  a  terrible  sound  of  mirth- 
less laughter  and  of  sobbing.  She  passed,  in  short, 
from  an  extraordinary  and  touching  burst  of  elo- 
quence into  a  violent  fit  of  hysterics,  during  which 
she  tore  at  her  hair  and  beat  her  head  against  the 
wall. 

Arnold  Charnowski  seized  both  of  her  wrists  in 
one  hand.  He  had  a  terrible  grip.  The  physical 
pain  that  it  made  her  suffer  brought  her  to  her 
senses.  And  she  sank  exhausted  into  the  big 
chair. 

From  the  kitchen  Charnowski  brought  a  clean 
cloth  dipped  in  cold  water. 

"Wash  your  face,"  he  commanded,  "and  you'll 
feel  better."  She  obeyed  meekly. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "listen  to  me.  One  fit 
of  hysterics  is  a  good  thing.  Another  might  be 
followed  by  a  disaster.  Tragedy,  no  matter  how 
poignant,  must  never  be  allowed  to  crowd  out 
common  sense.  The  probability  is  this:  that  for 
Dayton,  in  the  hurry  of  catching  his  train,  it  was 
out  of  the  question  to  make  any  provision  for  you. 
By  this  time  he  has  probably  written  and  made 

157 


His  Daughter 

some  such  provision.  You  should  receive  a  letter 
from  him  to-morrow  or  the  next  day.  He  will 
enclose  money  in  that  letter,  and  in  it  he  will  tell 
you  what  you  wish  to  be  told.  And  later,  when 
he  has  buried  his  mother,  he  will  return  to  you. 
...  If  I  am  right  in  these  surmises,  then  it  is 
foolish  of  you  to  sob  and  beat  your  head  against 
the  wall.  You  might  have  sprained  your  reason. 
...  Of  course,  if  I  am  wrong,  and  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst.  .  .  .  Even  if  he  shouldn't 
write,  even  if  he  shouldn't  come  back  to  you  .  .  ." 
"He  will  write  !  He  will  come  back !" 
"Of  course  he  will;  but  if,  through  no  fault  of 
his  own — accidents  will  happen — he  shouldn't, 
how  much  greater  than  ever  would  be  your  need 
to  exercise  self-control  and  to  display  common 
sense !  You  have  the  three  gold  pieces  that  your 
uncle  gave  you,  and  the  one  hundred  and  fourteen 
francs  which  I  am  to  give  you.  That  is  a  start. 
If  you  are  prudent,  and  can  find  work  which  will 
bring  you  in  something,  you  will  have  enough  to 
see  you  through  your  time  of  trial.  After  that  is 
over,  there  are  a  dozen  things  that  you  can  do  to 
keep  yourself  going.  And  let  me  tell  you  this:  it 
is  written  in  great  letters  across  the  whole  of 
human  experience  that  no  pain  is  great  enough 
to  last  forever.  Even  if  you  have  been  abandoned, 

158 


His  Daughter 

which  God  forbid,  and  which  I  do  not  for  one 
moment  believe,  a  time  will  come,  as  surely  as 
two  goes  into  four  twice,  when  you  will  once 
more  be  profoundly  glad  to  be  alive;  profoundly 
glad  to  love  and  be  loved." 

"Never!  Never!"  cried  Claire  D'Avril.  And 
again  she  began  to  cry;  but  gently,  this  time. 

He  touched  her  shoulders  with  his  strong  fingers. 

"If  you  ever  find  yourself  in  need  of  help  or 
friendship,"  he  said,  "I  shall  be  here."  His  cool 
voice  became  wonderfully  winning  and  gentle. 
"You  will  look  in  now  and  then  to  tell  me  how 
you  are  getting  on  ?" 

"I  shall  come  every  day,"  she  said,  "to  see  if 
there  is  a  letter  for  me." 

And  so  she  did;  every  day  for  three  long  months, 
but  there  was  no  letter.  Nor  did  any  letter  come 
for  her  at  her  uncle's  address;  and  this  was  because 
Dayton,  although  he  remembered  the  name  of  the 
street  in  which  the  armorer  lived,  had  never  been 
at  any  pains  to  learn  or  remember  his  number. 
And,  besides,  he  considered  that  the  studio  was  a 
sufficient  address.  And  so  it  should  have  been 
but  for  unkind  Fate  in  the  repulsive  shape  of 
Madame  Sidon. 

It  was  she  who  received  and  sorted  the  mail  for 
the  whole  house.  It  was  she  who,  though  she 


His  Daughter 

dared  not  open  or  destroy  them,  saw  to  it  that 
the  letters  addressed  to  Mademoiselle  Claire 
D'Avril  were  never  delivered.  And  the  intervals 
between  the  arrival  of  such  letters  became  greater 
and  greater.  And  May  came,  and  the  lilacs 
bloomed  and  the  horse-chestnut  bloomed,  and  it 
was  spring  in  Paris,  and  there  came  no  more  let- 
ters at  all. 

And  Claire  D'Avril  had  long  since  given  up 
writing.  New  York  City,  Etats-Unis  d'Amerique, 
was  such  a  very  vague  address,  and  it  was  the 
only  one  she  had. 

One  day  she  saw  Dayton's  sister  sitting  in  her 
carriage  in  front  of  a  shop.  And  she  tried  to 
speak  to  her  and  had  not  the  boldness.  Madame 
la  Comtesse  de  Sejour  was  in  deep  mourning. 
Claire  D'Avril  passed  close  to  her  victoria,  and 
the  comtesse,  though  she  did  not  betray  the  fact 
by  the  twinkle  of  an  eyelash,  recognized  her,  and 
felt  very  cold  all  over. 

"That  is  Fred's  young  woman,"  she  thought. 
"And  what  has  happened  to  her  is  excruciatingly 
obvious.  The  first  thing  we  know  she'll  be  accus- 
ing Fred!" 

Dayton  thought  that  he  was  to  have  the  com- 
partment all  to  himself,  and  this  thought  was  as 

160 


His  Daughter 

a  gleam  of  pale  light  in  his  dark  mood;  but  just 
before  the  train  started  the  guard  unlocked  the 
door  and  two  women,  with  a  quantity  of  smart 
luggage,  intruded  upon  him. 

One  of  the  women  was  obviously  the  other's 
maid,  and  she  remained  only  long  enough  to  lift 
her  mistress's  bags  into  the  racks,  and  then  she 
departed  with  the  guard  to  be  placed  in  a  third- 
class  carriage,  as  befitted  her  station  in  life. 

Dayton  looked  gloomily  at  the  tufted  back  of 
the  seat  opposite.  He  had  not  so  much  as  troubled 
to  glance  at  the  lady  who  was  to  occupy  the  com- 
partment with  him.  At  her  entrance  he  had 
pulled  in  his  feet  and  made  himself  small,  but  he 
had  not  looked  at  her. 

She,  on  the  other  hand,  treated  herself  to  a  long, 
direct  look  at  the  handsome  American.  During 
this  survey  the  expression  of  her  face  underwent 
no  change.  Having  satisfied  her  curiosity,  she 
took  off  her  hat,  tossed  it  carelessly  to  the  seat 
opposite,  leaned  back  and  thereafter,  for  a  long 
quarter  of  an  hour,  looked  neither  to  the  right 
nor  the  left. 

You  might  easily  have  mistaken  them  for  a 
pair  of  lovers  who  had  quarrelled,  and  who,  for 
the  moment,  hated  each  other. 

For  a  while  Dayton  was  not  really  conscious  of 
161 


His  Daughter 

the  lady's  presence.  He  was  entirely  occupied 
with  thoughts  of  his  mother  and  of  Claire.  He 
was  only  just  beginning  to  realize  how  much  his 
mother  meant  to  him.  It  was  not  until  he  began 
to  hanker  for  tobacco  that  he  stole  a  look  at  his 
companion. 

Her  profile  was  one  in  which  Flaxman,  who  de- 
signed for  Wedgwood,  must  have  delighted.  It 
was  as  sharply  cut  as  one  of  their  famous  cameos; 
but  for  the  shortness  of  the  upper  lip,  which  be- 
trayed her  English  nationality,  it  was  a  profile 
purely  Greek.  That  her  hair  was  cut  short  did 
not  detract  from  her  beauty.  It  was  the  blackest 
hair  Dayton  had  ever  seen,  strong-growing  and 
sharply  curling.  It  stood  well  out  from  her  small, 
well-rounded  head,  and  to  another  type  of  face 
might  have  given  a  startled  expression.  But  the 
effect  was  not  startled — it  was  startling. 

Her  dress,  severely  plain  except  for  a  touch  of 
soft  white  at  the  throat,  was  of  fawn-colored 
linen.  She  was  long  and  slender. 

Having  looked  once,  Dayton  looked  again  and 
again,  and  was  soon  drawing  deductions.  She 
was  English  and  high-born.  She  was  probably 
titled.  She  was  undoubtedly  celebrated.  She 
Was  superior  to  custom  and  convention.  She  could 
be  intolerably  cutting  and  insolent.  She  was  a 

162 


His  Daughter 

hard  rider,  a  good  shot,  very  likely,  a  judge  of 
dogs  and  men. 

Suddenly,  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  studying  her 
profile  for  the  tenth  time,  she  turned  and  faced 
him. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke  ?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course  not.     Please  do,"  blurted  Dayton. 

"And  you  will  too,  please,  whenever  you  wish." 

"Perhaps  you'll  let  me  offer  you  a  cigarette?" 
Dayton's  case  was  already  in  his  hand. 

"Thanks  awfully,"  she  said,  "but  I'm  sure 
yours  are  very  bad.  Most  men's  are."  She  did 
not,  however,  offer  him  one  of  her  own. 

She  smoked  as  if  her  lungs  were  made  of  leather. 
He  had  never  seen  any  one  inhale  so  deeply. 
Presently,  she  spoke  again. 

"I  am  going  to  the  States  for  the  first  time," 
she  said.  "  Perhaps  you  can  give  me  good  advice." 

"I'm  sure  I  can,"  said  Dayton,  quite  eagerly. 
"I've  rather  prided  myself  on  the  excellence  of 
the  advice  that  I  am  always  able  to  furnish  at  a 
moment's  notice." 

The  corners  of  her  proud,  insolent  mouth  re- 
laxed. It  wasn't  a  smile,  but  it  was  an  unguarded 
and  engaging  phenomenon. 

"What,"  he  asked,  "is  the  particular  axe  that 
you  have  to  grind  in  America  ?" 

163 


His  Daughter 

"Why,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  out  to  make  my 
fortune,  for  all  the  world  as  if  I  were  a  younger 


son." 


"Mining — ranching?"  Dayton  suggested,  with 
a  broad  smile. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  am  to  dance.  And  perhaps 
during  the  process  I  shall  acquire  one  of  your 
multimillionaires." 

"Have  you  a  contract  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Very  good,  7  think.  Three  hun- 
dred guineas  a  week  is  good,  isn't  it  ?  I  mean  for 
a  person  who  has  had  no  experience  in  dancing." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Dayton  gravely.  "Fifteen 
hundred  dollars  a  week  is  considered  exceptionally 
good  for  the  inexperienced.  But  seriously,  you 
don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  not  an  experienced 
dancer?" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "it's  a  question  of  notoriety 
and  figure.  You  take  off  as  many  clothes  as  you 
dare.  You  run  with  little  steps  to  one  corner  of 
the  stage  and  then  you  appear  as  if  you  had  sud- 
denly smelled  something  bad;  you  turn  and  run, 
with  shorter  and  swifter  steps,  to  the  other  corner 
of  the  stage,  very  purposefully;  again  the  bad 
smell  baffles  you,  and  so  on  and  so  forth.  Mean- 
while, the  orchestra  plays  a  Chopin  nocturne,  the 
lights  are  kept  very  low,  you  happen  to  have 

164 


His  Daughter 

been  born  in  the  English  peerage,  people  whisper 
to  each  other  that  you  are  supposed  to  be  the 
wickedest  woman  in  London,  and  come  Saturday 
night  the  management  is  only  too  happy  to  hand 
you  your  three  hundred  guineas." 

She  spoke  with  cool  insolence  and  conviction, 
as  if  all  these  things  were  matters  of  common 
knowledge. 

"Of  course,"  said  Dayton,  "all  that  sort  of 
thing  helps,  and  if  you  can  keep  time " 

"I'm  rather  good  at  that,"  she  said.  "It  isn't 
as  if  I'd  never  even  danced  round  dances.  But 
the  chief  element  of  success,  even  in  dear,  wise 
old  London,  is  cheek.  You'll  come  to  my  first 
night?" 

"Of  course." 

"Seats  one  guinea.  You  shall  see  me  interpret 
Chopin." 

She  laughed  a  clear,  beautiful,  and  mirthless 
laugh. 

"You,"  she  said,  "are  not  going  to  the  States 
because  you  want  to.  I  saw  you  on  the  platform, 
and  you  looked  very  sorry  for  yourself." 

"I  am  going  home  to  see  my  mother,  who  is 
old  and  very  ill,"  said  Dayton. 

"And  doubtless  you  are  leaving  behind  you 
some  one  who  is  very  young  and  well.  But  don't 

165 


His  Daughter 

take  it  to  heart.  All  roads  lead  back  to  Paris. 
I  am  tired  of  turning  my  head  to  talk  to  you. 
Come  and  sit  opposite  me,  unless  it  makes  you 
ill  to  ride  backward." 

Dayton  obeyed  smartly. 

"I  like  Americans,"  said  the  lady  presently. 
"And  when  I  saw  you  put  into  this  compartment 
I  said  to  my  maid:  'That  is  my  best  chance  for 
amusement  during  a  tedious  journey!" 

Dayton  tried  not  to  feel  pleased  and  flattered 
— and  failed. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  ought  to  point 
out  to  you  that  I  am  not  one  of  the  multimillion- 
aires." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "one  is  catholic  in  one's  tastes. 
One  likes  one  man  for  his  money,  another  for  his 
'beaux  yeux,'  another  for  his  strength.  Now,  you 
are  very  strong." 

"Strong  as  a  lion,"  said  Dayton  cheerfully. 

"Varsity?"  He  nodded.  She  scrutinized  him 
for  some  time  without  speaking.  Then  she  said: 

"What's  your  name  ?"     He  told  her. 

"I  am  Lady  Muriel  Strange,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  but  I've  heard  my  sister  talk  of  you — 
often,"  exclaimed  Dayton.  "She's  the  Comtesse 
de  Sejour.  She  thinks  you  are  the  most  gifted 
and  altogether  wonderful  person  in  the  world." 

166 


His  Daughter 

"She's  a  good  sort,  your  sister,"  said  Lady 
Muriel.  "But  lately  one  does  not  meet  often. 
There  was  a  time  when  your  sister  threatened  to 
be  rather  gay  and  that  was  followed  by  a  change 
of  heart.  She  has  been  led  to  disapprove  of  one." 

"She  says  you  have  a  heart  of  gold." 

"And  her  good  husband  says  that  I  haven't 
any  heart  at  all." 

"I  wish,"  said  Dayton,  "that  you'd  tell  me  the 
truth?" 

She  considered  this  proposal  for  some  moments 
and  then  said:  "No.  I  shan't.  But  I  have  no 
objection  to  your  finding  out  for  yourself.  You 
have  from  here  to  Cherbourg,  from  Cherbourg  to 
New  York." 

"You'll  afford  me  every  opportunity?" 

"I  shan't  make  any  promises." 

Dayton  did  not  enjoy  the  whole  trip  to  Cher- 
bourg. Leaving  Claire  without  seeing  her  to  say 
good-by  had  been  a  hard  wrench,  and  now  and 
then  her  face,  tragic  and  bewildered,  swept  be- 
tween him  and  the  admirable  beauty  of  Lady 
Muriel  Strange.  To  have  left  a  letter  for  Claire, 
and  money  in  the  secret  letter-box  was  a  satis- 
faction. It  proved  that  he  had  done  what  he 
could  to  arrange  for  everything.  And  then,  of 

167 


His  Daughter 

course,  from  New  York,  and  from  the  steamer 
for  that  matter,  he  would  write  very  often  and 
with  the  utmost  tenderness.  She  was  more  wife 
than  mistress.  He  could  not  have  denied  that  if 
he  wanted  to.  After  his  mother's  death  (curi- 
ously enough,  he  had  no  hope  of  her  recovery)  he 
would  return  at  once  to  Paris.  The  meeting  with 
Claire  would  more  than  make  up  for  the  enforced 
separation. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  gloomy  and  depressing 
thoughts  that  kept  going  the  rounds  in  his  mind, 
Lady  Muriel  Strange  was  a  wonderfully  entertain- 
ing experience.  To  lead  the  life  which  she  had 
led,  on  nothing  a  year,  men  had  squandered  for- 
tunes. She  had  been  deep  into  dark  Africa  with- 
out any  white  companion. 

She  had  shot  big  game  in  Indo-China  and  in 
India.  A  maharaja  covered  with  pearls  and  dia- 
monds had  offered  to  dispose  of  all  his  other  wives, 
by  drowning  if  necessary,  if  she  would  marry  him. 
Scandal  had  not  passed  her  by.  Men  and  women 
who  knew  their  London  said  that  in  that  wicked 
city  she  was  the  wickedest  woman;  but  when 
you  looked  at  that  finely  chiselled  face,  con- 
temptuous and  ice-cold,  you  could  believe  that 
she  was  hard  perhaps,  hard  as  marble,  but  not 
that  she  was  wicked.  Furthermore,  she  was  re- 

168 


His  Daughter 

ceived  at  Court,  and  Scandal,  though  he  clutched 
at  her  as  she  passed,  was  unable  to  seize  her  and 
drag  her  in  the  mud.  All  this  Dayton  had  heard 
more  than  once  from  his  sister.  And  the  more 
he  saw  of  Lady  Muriel  the  more  he  believed  what 
his  -sister  had  said  about  her.  In  Lady  Muriel's 
"golden  heart,"  however,  he  had  no  belief.  To 
imagine  her  stooping  to  a  low  action  was  impossi- 
ble; and  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  her  doing  a 
kind  thing  in  a  kind  way.  He  could  not  imagine 
her  doing  a  loving,  unbending,  yielding  thing;  be- 
ing in  love,  for  instance,  and  nestling  against  the 
man  she  loved,  and  laying  her  cheek  against 
his. 

He  hoped  that  Lady  Muriel  would  not  find  any 
friends  on  the  ship,  so  that  he  could  get  to  know 
her  really  well.  She  was  certainly  well  worth 
knowing.  She  had  her  imitators,  but  in  all  the 
world  there  was  no  one  really  like  her. 

But  Lady  Muriel  did  find  friends  on  the  steamer, 
and  made  others,  so  that  from  the  very  start  of 
the  voyage  he  was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  would  never  again  know  her  so  well  as  he  had 
on  the  long  haul  to  Cherbourg. 

Among  the  things  which  helped  to  keep  him  at 
a  distance  was  cards.  Lady  Muriel  was  a  born 
card-player  and  an  inveterate  gambler.  Dayton 

169 


His  Daughter 

was  neither.  Furthermore,  he  could  not  have 
afforded  to  play  for  the  stakes  which  were  affected 
by  the  peculiar  Englishwoman. 

She  neither  avoided  nor  encouraged  him.  She 
seemed  to  say:  "You  had  an  opportunity  to  make 
yourself  one  of  my  indispensable  friends;  you 
failed  to  seize  it.  I  am  either  easily  known  or 
not  known  at  all."  And  so  Dayton  had  plenty  of 
opportunity  of  thinking  of  those  private  troubles 
from  which  at  one  time  Lady  Muriel  had  seemed 
to  offer  a  conspicuous  asylum.  And  in  various 
quiet  corners  he  brooded  with  genuine  sorrow 
about  his  mother,  remembering  little  things,  com- 
fortings  of  long  ago  and  wonderful  flashes  of  un- 
derstanding. Before  long  he  would  see  that  dear 
face  still  in  death.  And  he  suffered  more  in  an- 
ticipation, perhaps,  than  he  was  to  suffer  in  fact 
when  that  dread  and  final  moment  would  sweep 
unfalteringly  into  his  life. 

Every  day  he  wrote  to  Claire  a  few  lines — many 
pages.  It  was  easy  to  write  to  her.  It  was  not 
necessary  to  think  up  things  to  say.  Sometimes 
he  thought  that  in  the  course  of  near  events  he 
would  very  likely  see  Dorothy  Grandison.  That 
thought  troubled  him  a  little  and  left  him  cold. 
"I  was  fond  of  her,"  he  said.  "I  must  have  been, 
but  if  an  angel  came  down  from  heaven  and  told 

170 


His  Daughter 

me  that  I  should  never  see  her  again  it  would  be 
rather  a  relief." 

It  was  the  fifth  night  out.  The  moon  which 
Dayton,  filled  with  thoughts  of  Claire  D'Avril  and 
longing  for  her,  had  been  contemplating,  had  gone 
under  a  cloud.  The  winter  air,  owing  to  the  near- 
ness of  the  Gulf  Stream,  was  sticky,  warm,  and 
muggy.  A  light  overcoat  was  too  much;  no  over- 
coat at  all,  unless  you  kept  moving,  was  not 
enough.  So  Dayton  made  the  round  of  the  deck. 
Lady  Muriel  and  Drummond,  the  American  mil- 
lionaire, were  among  the  few  who  still  occupied 
steamer  chairs.  It  was  eleven  o'clock. 

Lady  Muriel,  reclining  at  ease,  was  in  deep 
shadow.  Drummond,  bending  forward,  his  el- 
bows on  his  knees,  was  engrossed  with  her.  She 
was  making  him  laugh.  Dayton  caught  the  cool 
tones  of  her  voice  as  he  passed.  They  had  not 
noticed  him.  Anger  found  place  in  his  heart. 
She  must  have  seen  him,  she  might  in  common 
decency  have  said  a  word  of  recognition.  She 
had  not  spoken  to  him  all  day.  What  a  cold- 
blooded proposition  she  was ! 

After  that  he  kept  to  the  starboard  side.  For 
half  an  hour  he  walked  briskly,  trying  to  brush 
the  gloomy  and  peevish  thoughts  from  his  mind. 
The  starboard  was  also  the  windward  side  of  the 

171 


His  Daughter 

ship.  This  annoyed  him.  Who  was  Lady  Muriel 
Strange  that  she  should  keep  him  from  the  shelter 
of  the  deck-house  ? 

Suddenly,  in  the  light  of  a  smoking-room  port- 
hole, he  met  Drummond  face  to  face.  Drum- 
mond  also  looked  extremely  cross  and  peevish. 
They  wished  each  other  a  curt  good  night.  Drum- 
mond disappeared  into  the  smoking-room  and 
Dayton  crossed  to  the  shelter  of  the  port  deck. 
From  having  seen  Drummond  he  inferred  that 
Lady  Muriel  could  be  no  longer  making  her  shad- 
owed corner  fascinating.  But  he  was  mistaken. 
She  had  not  moved,  and  she  called  to  him. 

"Come  and  talk  to  me,"  she  said. 

A  moment  later  Dayton,  completely  mollified, 
bending  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  was  sitting 
where  Drummond  had  sat. 

"I  have  sent  Drummond  to  bed,"  said  Lady 
Muriel;  "he  is  an  impossible  person.  He  is  one 
of  the  few  men  that  I  have  known  whom  I  couldn't 
ever  learn  to  love  for  his  money  alone." 

Dayton  chuckled.  He  did  not  admire  either 
Drummond  or  his  money. 

"Sometimes,"  said  Lady  Muriel,  "I  rather 
fancy  that  I  have  Jio  heart.  What  do  you  think  ? 
You  were  to  study  me,  you  know,  and  render  an 
expert  opinion." 

172 


His  Daughter 

"My  opportunities  for  studying  that  question 
have  been  rather  limited,"  said  Dayton. 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  suppose  I've  seemed  rather 
horrid;  but  you  don't  play  cards.  Tell  me  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  at  once  ask  the  question  that  she 
had  in  mind.  His  eyes,  now  accustomed  to  the 
darkness  of  Lady  Muriel's  corner,  seemed  to  dis- 
cover in  her  eyes  an  altogether  new  and  trembling 
brightness. 

"I'll  tell  you  anything,"  he  said. 

"Do  men  like  you?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

It  was  the  last  question  that  Dayton  could 
have  anticipated.  Its  unexpectedness  brought  a 
stammer  into  his  answer. 

"Why — I — I — don't  know.     I  hope  so." 

"You  see,  women  do  like  you.  And  so  often 
the  two  things  don't  go  together." 

"How  do  you  know  that  women  like  me?  I 
don't  know  that  they  do.  I  wish  they  did." 

She  laughed  very  softly.   "Give  me  your  hand." 

"Going  to  tell  my  fortune —  '  he  broke  short 
off,  almost  in  horror.  She  had  seized  his  hand 
with  a  kind  of  ferocity,  and  with  both  hers  was 
pressing  it  to  her  heart. 

"Now  do  you  know  if  I've  got  a  heart  or  not  ?" 

He  could  feel  it  beating  furiously,  but  he  did 
not  answer  her  question. 


His  Daughter 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  she  said,  the  words  all  hur- 
ried and  huddled  together.  "Kiss  me!" 

When  they  met  for  the  first  time  next  day,  in 
the  presence  of  Drummond  and  some  others,  it 
might  have  been  thought  that  Lady  Muriel 
Strange  had  for  Dayton  a  feeling  amounting  to 
aversion.  And  if,  at  the  end  of  the  voyage,  the 
passengers  had  been  asked  to  state  which  man  of 
all  those  who  had  been  attentive  to  her  had  most 
interested  the  famous  Englishwoman,  no  passen- 
ger would  have  named  Dayton. 

Cautious  in  the  open,  almost  to  the  point  of  ab- 
surdity, she  was,  under  the  rose,  a  creature  all 
passion  and  daring.  She  did  not  care  what  she 
said  or  what  she  wrote.  No  deck-steward  car- 
ried Dayton  two  letters  from  her,  but  during  the 
remaining  short  days  of  the  voyage  every  avail- 
able deck-steward  carried  him  one.  And  these 
letters,  Dayton  at  the  earliest  opportunity  tore 
into  tiny  fragments  and  consigned  to  the  ocean 
piece  by  piece.  They  terrified  him  and  they 
humiliated  him.  And  yet  he  regretted  that  he 
dared  not  keep  them. 

For  his  own  conduct  he  made  excuses,  thereby 
proving  that  of  that  conduct  he  was  ashamed. 
The  intrigue  was  not  of  his  seeking.  It  was  she 

174 


His  Daughter 

who  had  made  love  to  him.  As  for  Claire  D'Avril 
— well,  she  was  not  his  wife,  was  she  ? 

But  Dayton  could  not  swallow  his  own  excuses. 
He  loved  Claire,  and  he  had  been  faithless  to  her 
even  while  he  was  busy  grieving  over  their  separa- 
tion and  longing  for  her.  He  did  not  love  Lady 
Muriel;  and  yet,  if  she  wished  it,  he  felt  that  he 
would  have  to  marry  her.  What  would  Claire 
think  of  him  then,  poor  thing  ?  And  what  would 
his  life  be  with  such  a  woman  as  Lady  Muriel  for 
his  wife  ?  How  long  would  her  sudden  infatua- 
tion for  him  last  ?  How  soon  would  a  sudden  in- 
fatuation for  some  one  else  begin  ? 

He  was  plunged  into  depths  of  remorse  from 
which  no  excuses  which  he  was  able  to  make  could 
float  him.  Nor  was  it  any  great  satisfaction  to 
imagine  that  women  were  more  necessary  to  him 
than  to  other  men  and  to  place  the  blame  on 
Fate. 

"But  you  don't  care  for  me  the  way  I  care  for 
you." 

"But  truly — look  for  yourself.  I'll  turn  out  the 
light."  There  emerged  from  the  darkness  a  cir- 
cular patch  only  less  dark. 

"You  see  now.  It's  not  as  dark  as  it  was.  For 
your  own  sake  tell  me  to  go." 


His  Daughter 

"It's  been  like  that  for  hours;  it's  only  four 
o'clock.  There's  so  much  to  be  talked  over. 
There'll  be  neither  time  to-morrow  nor  oppor- 
tunity. We  must  arrange  how  we  are  to  meet 
and  where.  And  there's  one  thing  you've  never 
said.  Oh,  you  know  jolly  well  how  to  hold  your 
tongue  .  .  ." 

"What  haven't  I  said?" 

"You  haven't  said  that  you  love  me." 

"But  I  do— don't  I?" 

"Turn  on  the  light.  .  .  .  Now  look  me  in  the 
eyes  and  say  it."  After  a  moment's  hesitation  he 
said  it;  but  she  sighed. 

"It's  no  good,"  she  said  "you  don't" 

"Nor  you,"  he  answered.   "You  don't  love  me." 

"I  wonder." 

"I  don't." 

"If  you  loved  me  .  .  .  Oh,  what  is  the  use? 
What  is  the  use  of  anything?  .  .  .  And  so  I 
don't  love  you,  my  handsome  young  man !  Aren't 
you  the  fine  one  to  be  telling  me  that — consider- 
ing. Well,  then,  I  don't  love  you;  but  listen.  .  .  . 
If  you  went  out  of  that  door,  and  it  closed  behind 
you,  and  a  dark  angel  told  me  that  I  should  never 
see  you  again,  I'd  manage  to  squeeze  myself 
through  that  port-hole  and  drop  into  the  ocean 
and  drown." 

"I  think  that  you  think  you  love  me." 
176 


His  Daughter 

"A  lot  of  thinking  I've  done.  You  turned  my 
blood  into  fire,  and  my  self-respect — even  I  have 
that,  you  know — every  woman  has — burnt  to  the 
ground." 

Dayton  drew  a  long  breath,  and  then  spoke 
with  a  voice  which  he  strove  to  make  even  and 
sincere. 

"Listen,  dear,"  he  said;  "there's  one  thing  we 
haven't  decided,  and  that's  when  we  are  to  be 
married." 

She  was  silent  for  what  seemed  to  him  a  long 
and  ominous  interval.  Then 

"I'll  always  be  glad  to  remember  that  you  said 
that,"  she  said.  "And  I  believe  that  you'd  go 
through  with  it.  Though  you  are  slow  at  cards, 
and  don't  like  to  take  sporting  chances,  you're  a 
thoroughbred,  you  are.  .  .  .  But  I'm  only  one 
kind  of  bad.  I'd  sooner  be  dragged  through  hades 
by  the  heels  than  marry  a  man  who  didn't  love 
me.  .  .  .  You  don't  mean  to  go  through  life 
hurting  people,  but  you  are  the  kind  of  man — 
well,  every  millionth  man  is  born  like  that — I 
don't  know  what  the  quality  is — perhaps  a  liquid 
gleam  in  the  eye — perhaps  something  that  has 
neither  name  nor  tangibility — but  think  over  the 
story  of  your  whole  young  life  and  see  if  I'm  not 
right.  .  .  .  Very  few  women  will  ever  say  'No* 
to  you.  That,  my  dear,  is  your  great  gift  from 

177 


His  Daughter 

the  gods.  You  are  just  beginning  to  find  it  out. 
.  .  .  You  can  twist  us  round  your  fingers.  .  .  ." 

"Then  marry  me." 

"No." 

"Please  !"     She  shook  her  head. 

"I  can't  twist  you  round  my  fingers,  that's  cer- 
tain," he  said.  "And  so  you  see  I  don't  believe 
in  the  great  gift  from  the  gods.  If  I  did  I'd  shoot 
myself.  I  want  to  be  just  ordinary — and  decent." 

She  laughed  a  strange,  harsh  little  laugh.  "It's 
for  you  to  choose.  And  if  you  make  a  hack  of 
your  life,  don't  say  I  didn't  warn  you.  Some  day 
you'll  love  some  one,  but  she'll  be  neither  your 
mother  nor  your  wife  nor  your  mistress,  and  she'll 
make  you  wish  that  you'd  never  been  born." 

"Neither  mother,  wife,  nor  mistress!" 

"  Remember  that." 

"But  who,  then?" 

"Oh,  you'll  know  when  the  time  comes.  And 
now  please  go.  It's  getting  frightfully  light  .  .  ." 

"You'll  let  me  know  when  I  can  see  you  in 
New  York?" 

"Of  course.  Now  run  along  and  try  to  get 
your  beauty-sleep." 

The  doctors  told  Dayton  that  his  mother  could 
not  last  very  long.  For  the  moment  she  was 

178 


His  Daughter 

comfortable.  The  attacks  came  usually  at  night. 
There  was  no  pain  less  bearable.  .  .  .  But  if  in 
the  beginning  the  growth  had  been  cut  away  ? 
...  It  had  been,  only  to  recur  in  another  place; 
there  had  been  more  cutting.  The  disease  was  in 
her  blood;  sooner  or  later  it  must  tap  an  artery; 
then  the  end  would  come  drowsily  and  peacefully. 
It  was  not  until  her  condition  could  no  longer  be 
concealed  that  she  had  told  her  children.  She 
had  been  extraordinarily  brave.  Even  when  the 
attacks  were  on  she  didn't  make  much  fuss.  .  .  . 
But  how  long  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  she  might  go  on  resist- 
ing another  six  weeks,  or — there  was  no  use  minc- 
ing matters — she  might  die  within  twenty-four 
hours.  Could  he  see  her  now  ?  Oh,  yes;  certainly. 

He  hurried  up  the  well-remembered  stairs  to 
the  well-remembered  room.  But  in  the  narrow 
brass  bed,  propped  up  with  pillows,  was  not  the 
suffering  wreck  of  humanity  which  he  had  been 
led  to  expect.  Mrs.  Dayton  looked  very  natural. 
She  was  neither  emaciated  nor  colorless.  And,  al- 
though her  voice  trembled,  it  was  with  the  joy  of 
seeing  her  son  after  their  long  parting.  But  when 
he  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms  she  restrained 
him  with  a  quick  gesture. 

"Your  old  mother  has  to  be  handled  with 
gloves,"  she  explained. 

179 


His  Daughter 

"But  you  look  so  well,  so  like  yourself!" 

"How  I  look  doesn't  matter;  but  come  the 
other  side,  so  that  the  light  will  be  in  your  face. 
I  want  to  see  how  you  look." 

"Well?" 

"You've  changed,"  she  said  critically.  "You 
are  no  longer  collegiate.  You  look  authoritative. 
You  look  as  if  you  could  get  things  done.  .  .  . 
What  an  enormous  beautiful  son  it  is!" 

"If  you'd  only  told  me,  you  know,  don't  you, 
that  I  would  have  come  home  at  once  ?" 

"Of  course  I  knew,  but  now  that  you  are  home, 
I  want  you  to  go  your  own  way,  see  your  friends 
and  all.  I  couldn't  bear  that  you  should  just 
wait  about  the  house.  Be  in  and  out,  and  never 
far  off.  That's  what  I  want.  It- may  be  a  long 
wait.  I  will  make  it  as  long  as  I  can.  I  don't 
want  to  die.  I  prefer  life,  on  almost  any  terms, 
to  death.  .  .  .  They've  told  you,  I  suppose,  that 
there  is  absolutely  nothing  to  be  done  ?" 

"You've  tried  radium?" 

"Everything.  I've  fought  it  hard  from  the  be- 
ginning, and  burned  money.  You  mustn't  hold 
that  against  me.  .  .  .  You  look  a  little  tired. 
Was  it  a  hard  trip?" 

"It  seemed  very  long  at  times." 

"Of  course  it  did.  You  were  anxious  about 
1 80 


His  Daughter 

your  mother.  I  see  by  the  paper  that  you  had 
distinguished  fellow  passengers.  Aren't  the  pa- 
pers wonderful !  I  read  all  about  your  trip  before 
you  were  able  to  get  up-town  from  the  wharf.  I 
must  know  what  you  thought  of  Lady  Muriel. 
I've  heard  so  much  about  her.  It  seems  that  she 
is  coming  over  to  dance.  You  met  her,  of  course  ?" 

"We  came  up  from  Paris  in  the  same  compart- 
ment," said  Dayton,  "and  scraped  an  acquain- 
tance. She  is  very  interesting,  very  distinguished. 
She  is  always  very  good-looking;  and  there  are 
times  when  she  is  really  beautiful.  But,  as  to  the 
dancing,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

He  was  astonished  at  the  ease  and  nonchalance 
with  which,  in  his  mother's  presence,  he  had  ap- 
praised Lady  Muriel.  It  wasn't  true,  the  old  no- 
tion, that  he  could  hide  nothing  from  his  mother. 
When  she  had  brought  up  Lady  Muriel's  name 
he  had  had  a  sort  of  sinking  feeling;  he  had  feared 
that  somehow  or  other,  with  every  opposite  wish 
and  intention,  he  would  manage  to  give  Lady 
Muriel  away  and  himself  too. 

The  ordeal  was  over  and  his  mother  passed  to 
other  topics.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  she  dis- 
missed him.  She  had  to  rest,  she  said.  He  could 
come  to  see  her  again  at  seven,  for  a  few  minutes, 
before  he  dressed  for  dinner.  Of  course  he  could 

181 


His  Daughter 

dine  at  home,  but  wouldn't  it  be  more  cheerful 
for  him  at  his  club  or  a  restaurant  ? 

But  for  several  days  Dayton  took  all  his  meals 
at  home.  Then,  more  by  his  mother's  insistence 
than  his  own  volition,  he  began  to  go  about  a  lit- 
tle; but  he  was  very  attentive,  very  dutiful.  He 
was  in  and  out  of  the  house  all  day.  Lady  Muriel 
seemed  to  have  dropped  out  of  his  life.  When- 
ever he  called  at  her  hotel  she  was  out.  He  was 
not  sorry.  Now  that  time  had  lent  a  little  per- 
spective, it  was  to  the  gentleness  and  naturalness 
and  sanity  of  Claire  D'Avril's  affection  that  his 
thoughts  turned  more  often  than  to  the  fire  of 
Lady  Muriel's.  If  Claire  could  have  known  pre- 
cisely what  went  on  in  his  mind  she  would  very 
likely  have  forgiven  his  infidelity. 

But  one  morning  he  received  a  note  from  Lady 
Muriel: 

I've  tried  to  go  my  way,  and  let  you  go  yours,  but 
it's  no  good.  If  you  came  to  see  me  this  afternoon 
at  five  I'd  be  in. 

He  passed  the  day  in  a  kind  of  subdued  excite- 
ment. It  astounded  him  to  discover  how  strong 
a  hold  Lady  Muriel  had  on  him.  And  he  went 
for  some  hours  without  once  thinking  of  Claire 
D'Avril.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  house 

182 


His  Daughter 

the  postman  brought  a  special-delivery  letter  for 
him.  He  ripped  it  open  and  read: 

DEAR  FRED: 

We've  only  just  learned  that  you  are  in  town.  We 
are  in  town  too  for  the  night  at  the  Royal.  Dorothy 
is  beside  herself  at  the  idea  of  seeing  you.  Of  course  it 
isn't  in  the  compact,  but  you've  been  so  very,  very 
good,  both  of  you,  that  I  haven't  the  heart  not  to  make 
just  one  exception.  So  won't  you  dine  with  us  to-night 
at  7.15,  and  go  to  the  play  afterward  ? 

MARY  GRANDISON. 

He  put  off  answering  until  he  had  reached  Lady 
Muriel's  hotel.  Then,  after  he  had  sent  up  his 
card,  leaning  over  the  long  office  desk,  his  heart 
beating  in  a  heavy,  disconcerting  way,  but  not 
at  thoughts  of  Dorothy,  he  wrote: 

DEAR  MRS.  GRANDISON: 

With  the  greatest  pleasure,  if  I  may  make  the  ac- 
ceptance conditional  upon  my  mother's  wishes.  She 
is  very  ill  indeed.  But  the  moment  I  get  back  to  the 
house  I  will  telephone  and  be  definite.  Please  forgive 
this  scrawl. 

With  admiration,  always, 

FREDERICK  DAYTON. 

"May  I  come  in,  mother?" 
"Of  course." 

"I've  been  invited  to  dine  and  go  to  the  play 
183 


His  Daughter 

with  some  old  friends.     I  ought  to  go  if  I  can. 
Would  you  mind  ?" 

"Of  course  not,  dear.  But  if  you  are  to  go  to 
the  play,  dinner  will  be  in  the  earlies,  and  it's 
now  quarter  of  seven." 

"Dinner  is  for  quarter  past.  But  I  can  bathe 
and  dress  in  eight  minutes  when  my  things  are 
laid  out.  I  was  timed  once  on  a  bet.  May  I  use 
your  telephone  ? " 

Presently  he  was  speaking  with  Dorothy  Gran- 
dison  and  telling  her  that  he  would  come  with 
pleasure. 

"What  a  pretty  voice  she  has,  dear." 

"You  could  hear  ?  Yes.  Hasn't  she  ?  And 
she's  a  mighty  pretty  girl.  Only  a  kid,  you  know; 
but  we  got  to  be  great  friends  in  Egypt  and  after- 
ward in  Paris.  She  and  her  mother  and  I." 

"I  know — you  wrote  me  about  them.  I  thought 
at  one  time — but  then  you  mentioned  them  less 
and  less,  and  finally  not  at  all.  I  thought  at  one 
time  that  there  might  be  something  between  you." 

"Why,"  said  Dayton  casually,  "how  could  there 
have  been  ?  She  was  only  fifteen  or  sixteen." 

"I'm  sure  from  her  voice  that  she  is  good  and 
wholesome." 

"She's  a  perfect  little  dear,  and  so  is  her 
mother." 

184 


His  Daughter 

"I  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Dayton  quietly,  "that  I 
could  see  you  settled  before  I  go." 

"Please,  please  don't  talk  about  going,  mum- 
sey." 

His  mother  smiled  brightly. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  hurry  and  go,  you  II  be  late." 

He  dressed  savagely. 

"How,"  he  said,  "can  I  go  straight  from  Muriel 
to  a  woman  like  my  mother,  and  talk  as  if  butter 
wouldn't  melt  in  my  mouth,  and  then  on  to 
Dorothy  and  sooner  or  later  back  to  Muriel  ? 

"If  my  mother  knew,  she'd  despise  me,  and  if 
the  Grandisons  knew,  they'd  simply  pass  me  up 
— and  I  take  the  risks,  and  it  doesn't  even  worry 
me.  ...  I  used  to  think  I  was  a  decent  lot  .  .  ." 
He  glanced  at  himself  in  the  glass  and  said: 

"I'm  beginning  to  hate  you." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  he  made  an  end  of  that 
beginning.  Mrs.  Grandison  had  tactfully  delayed 
the  last  touches  to  her  toilet,  so  that  Dorothy 
could  have  a  minute  alone  with  him. 

That  pure,  beautiful,  and  faithful  face,  only 
dimly  remembered,  came  back  into  his  life  as  sim- 
ply as  it  had  gone  out  of  it.  He  had  only  time  to 
observe  that  she  was  older,  that  she  was  really 
grown  up  now,  and  that  her  eyes  were  blazing 
with  happiness. 

185 


His  Daughter 

He  had  wondered  how  he  should  get  through 
with  that  meeting.  He  wondered  no  longer.  He 
simply  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and 
distinctly  he  heard  himself  murmur: 

"It's  been  so  long — so-o  long!"  It  was  then 
that  he  really  hated  himself. 


1 86 


BUT  during  the  evening  Dayton's  sudden  self- 
hatred  petered  out.  Aware  of  the  happiness 
which  the  mere  sight  of  him  afforded  Dorothy,  he 
could  not  continue  to  hate  himself.  For  the  fact 
that  for  many  months  now  he  had  thought  of  her 
with  coolness,  shamefacedness,  and  perhaps  re- 
morse, he  had  no  good  excuse  to  offer.  He  was 
the  kind  of  man,  it  seems,  whose  heart  is  not 
made  fonder  by  separation.  That  was  his  mis- 
fortune, not  his  fault.  He  was  sorry;  but  he  could 
not  help  himself.  It  was  something  at  least  to 
find  that  there  had  been  a  genuine  quality  in  his 
sentiment  for  Dorothy.  That  sentiment  had  not 
died — it  had  merely  been  asleep;  and  now  behold 
it  was  awake,  its  wide  eyes  filled  with  peacefulness 
and  pleasure. 

They  dined  and  they  went  to  the  play.  They 
laughed  like  children  and  Mrs.  Grandison's  moth- 
erly heart  went  out  to  them.  It  would  be  non- 
sense, she  thought,  to  insist  on  any  longer  interval 
of  probation;  her  mind  could  pick  no  flaw  in  their 
love  for  each  other.  Bless  them,  she  thought, 
they've  written  only  the  most  casual  and  occa- 

187 


His  Daughter 

sional  letters  and  they've  kept  their  compact  with 
the  utmost  punctiliousness,  and  all  the  time  they 
were  eating  their  hearts  out  for  the  sight  and 
sound  of  each  other.  There  is  no  reason  why 
they  should  not  be  openly  engaged,  and  in  a  year 
or  so — of  course  Dorothy  will  be  much  too  young 
even  then,  but  still,  etc.,  etc. 

It  had  always  been  in  the  back  of  Dayton's 
thoughts  that  if,  when  she  was  grown  up,  Doro- 
thy still  cared  for  him,  he  would  chivalrously  pre- 
tend that  he  still  cared  for  her  and  they  would 
be  married.  And  she  would  never  know  the  sac- 
rifice he  had  made.  She  would  never  know.  He 
would  play  the  lover  to  the  end. 

But  now  it  was  in  the  forefront  of  his  thoughts 
that  she  was  grown  up,  and  that  she  still  did  care 
for  him,  and  always  would,  and  that  marriage 
with  her  would  entail  no  sacrifices  upon  his  part 
— none  whatever.  Indeed,  he  was  rapidly  falling 
in  love  with  the  idea  of  that  marriage. 

"No,  I  mustn't  come  up.  It's  the  longest  I've 
been  away  from  my  mother  since  I  got  back.  It's 
been  splendid.  I've  loved  every  minute  of  it. 
Are  you  really  going  back  to  the  country  to-mor- 
row?" 

"Yes.  Really!  But  you  must  come  to  see  us. 
We're  only  an  hour  from  town." 

188 


His  Daughter 

"Really!     I  may  really  come?" 

"You've  been  very  good  children,"  said  Mrs. 
Grandison.  "If  you  want  to  see  each  other  I 
shan't  interfere." 

A  heavenly  light  came  into  Dorothy's  eyes. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  listening  to  celestial 
music.  And  in  that  moment  Dayton  knew  that 
irrevocably,  unless  death  intervened,  he  and 
Dorothy  would  one  day  be  man  and  wife.  He 
looked  very  proud  and  manly,  and  a  fine  note  of 
seriousness  came  into  his  voice,  for  during  those 
moments  he  had  made  many  high  resolves. 

"May  I  tell  my  mother,"  he  asked,  "and  take 
Dorothy  to  see  her?" 

"Oh,"  cried  Dorothy,  "I'm  afraid  she'll  just 
look  at  me  and  know  I'm  not  good  enough." 
Dayton  laughed  softly. 

"When  she  looks  at  you,"  he  said,  "she  will  be 
so  proud  and  happy  that  she  will  forget  all  that 
she  has  suffered." 

"There  is  another  important  person  to  be  told," 
said  Mrs.  Grandison.  "Dorothy's  father  knows 
nothing  about  you  young  people.  Nothing  what- 
ever." 

"He  must  know  from  me,  then,"  said  Dayton. 

"I  wish  I  could  be  behind  the  door  when  you 
tell  him,"  said  Dorothy. 

189 


His  Daughter 

"Is  he  a  violent,  dangerous  man  ?" 

Then  they  all  three  laughed  as  if  Dayton  had 
said  something  very  funny  indeed.  And  upon 
that  laugh,  at  the  door  of  the  elevator  shaft,  he 
bade  them  good  night. 

He  ran  ever  so  lightly  up  the  stairs  to  his  moth- 
er's door,  but  she  heard  him  and  called  out  that 
she  was  awake. 

"I  had  my  nap  this  afternoon,"  she  explained. 
"Were  the  Grandisons  as  nice  as  ever?'* 

"Even  nicer,"  said  Dayton.  He  drew  a  chair 
close  to  the  bed  and  took  one  of  his  mother's 
hands  in  both  his.  The  expression  on  his  face 
was  one  of  sweetness  with  gayety.  To  his  mother 
he  seemed  an  adorable  boy — frank,  high-minded, 
sweet-tempered,  gentle,  wise  beyond  his  years, 
beautiful  to  the  eye,  and  tremendously  tal- 
ented. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "at  our  last  interview,  brief 
though  it  was,  you  expressed  a  wish  to  see  me 
settled.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  I  am 
the  most  dutiful  son  in  the  world  and  that  your 
wish  is  ever  my  law?" 

A  look,  part  pleased,  part  anxious,  came  into 
Mrs.  Dayton's  eyes. 

"Darling !"  she  exclaimed,  "what  are  you  going 
to  tell  me?" 

190 


His  Daughter 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Miss  Grandison,  mother." 

"Oh,  my  dear!" 

"She  is  beautiful,  mother,  and  sweet,  and  good, 
and  loyal.  I'm  not  worthy  to  kiss  the  dust  oh 
her  little  shoes." 

"This  is  a  great  shock  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Day- 
ton, "a  great  shock." 

"But,  mother,  you  said " 

"I  know  I  said.  I  was  theorizing.  But  this 
young  lady  seems  to  be  a  fact." 

"But  when  I  tell  you " 

"Did  any  mother  ever  believe  what  her  son 
told  her  about  a  lady  she  had  never  seen  ?  Of 
course  not;  it  would  be  inhuman.  When  you  tell 
me  that  she  is  good  and  that  she  is  loyal,  I  believe 
that  you  think  so.  Of  course  you  do.  You  are 
in  love  with  her.  But  I  am  not  in  love  with  her. 
.  .  .  Not  yet.  I  should  see  her  with  unbiassed 
eyes." 

"You  shall,  dear;  just  as  soon  as  it  can  be 
arranged.  They  live  out  of  town." 

"I  know  who  they  are — vaguely.  They  are  the 
right  sort  of  people " 

"I  thought  I  was  the  bearer  of  good  news.  In- 
stead I'll  have  given  you  a  bad  night.  I'm  so 
sorry.  I'm  so  hot-headed  and  impetuous.  I 
might  have  waited  till  morning." 

191 


His  Daughter 

"I  wouldn't  have  had  you  wait.  But  tell  me 
— when,  how  long ?" 

"Ever  since  Egypt,  mother  dear.  But  she  was 
so  young  that  her  mother  put  us  on  a  sort  of  pro- 
bation; which  was  just  and  wise;  and  now,  if  her 
father  doesn't  find- fault  with  me,  all  is  well." 

"I'd  just  like  to  see  him  find  fault  with 
you!" 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  mother,  that  the 
father  of  a  daughter  has  a  great  deal  in  common 
with  the  mother  of  a  son  ?" 

"What  nonsense  you  do  talk!  .  .  .  And  now 
I  think  I'd  rather  you  kissed  me  good  night.  This 
has  all  been  very  sudden  and  very  bewildering." 

"I'm  only  worried  about  your  state  of  mind  till 
you've  seen  her,"  said  Dayton.  "After  that  I 
shall  have  no  worry  of  that  kind.  .  .  .  Good 
night,  mother  dear,  and  bless  you." 

Mrs.  Dayton  did  not  sleep  at  all  and  Dayton 
did  not  sleep  well.  It  was  not  enough,  it  seems, 
that  for  the  first  time  in  many  years  he  knelt  by 
his  bed  and  prayed  to  God  to  make  him  a  good 
man.  He  had  no  sooner  dropped  his  head  on  the 
pillow  than  it  began  to  fill  with  troubling  thoughts. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  go  very  deeply  into  those 
thoughts.  It  is  enough  perhaps  to  record  that 
more  than  once  during  the  night  he  exclaimed: 

192 


His  Daughter 

"O  Christ !  If  only  I'd  known  then  what  I  know 
now!" 

It  was  not  the  thoughts  of  his  conduct  with 
Claire  that  tortured  him,  but  those  concerning 
Lady  Muriel  Strange.  It  seemed  incredible  that 
a  man  of  his  breeding  and  ideals  should  go  direct 
from  a  base  and  transient  intrigue  to  engage  him- 
self to  a  girl  purer  than  snowdrops,  innocent  and 
utterly  trusting. 

"Well,"  he  thought  at  last,  "it's  ugly — unfor- 
givably ugly.  But  nothing  like  that  shall  ever 
happen  again.  And  though  Dorothy  will  never 
know  that  anything  like  that  ever  did  happen,  I'll 
make  it  up  to  her,  so  help  me ! — I'll  be  so  good  to 
her  that  some  day,  perhaps,  I'll  forgive  myself." 

But  he  could  not  sleep.  There  was  the  inter- 
view with  Dorothy's  father  to  be  gone  through 
with;  there  would  have  to  be  another — a  very 
final  interview,  indeed — with  Lady  Muriel;  and 
then,  of  course,  he  must  make  some  sort  of  ar- 
rangement about  Claire  D'Avril.  She  must  never 
be  allowed  to  want  for  anything. 

But  he  did  not  look  as  if  he  had  had  a  bad 
night  when  he  stepped  into  the  tall  building  in 
Exchange  Place  where  Mr.  Grandison  had  his 
offices.  A  cold  bath  and  a  brisk  walk  part  of  the 
way  down-town  had  brought  back  the  color  to 

193 


His  Daughter 

his  cheeks  and  the  sparkle  to  his  eyes.  Nor  did 
the  perplexities  of  his  life  trouble  him  as  much 
in  the  bright  sunshine  as  they  had  in  the  dark. 

Mr.  Grandison,  recently  appointed  receiver  for 
a  traction  company  that  was  not  paying  dividends 
or  anything  else  to  speak  of,  was  a  very  busy  man 
and  an  important  man.  Therefore  he  could  not 
afford  to  put  on  airs  and  feign  inaccessibility. 
Though  not  a  great  man,  he  was  just  as  accessible 
as  if  he  had  been.  And  he  had  no  sooner  received 
Dayton's  card  than  he  gave  the  order  for  Dayton 
to  be  shown  into  his  private  office. 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you  at  last,"  he  said. 
"Your  name  is  very  familiar  to  me.  To  certain 
members  of  my  family  you  are  one  of  the  great 
enthusiasms.  Sit  down.  There  are  cigarettes  in 
that  box.  Have  you  come  to  see  me  on  business 
or  pleasure  ?" 

"I  won't  deny  that  it's  a  pleasure  to  see  you," 
said  Dayton,  and  he  found  it  so  difficult  to  say 
anything  else  that  he  began  to  blush  and  feel  very 
nervous. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  shock,"  he 
said  presently.  "I've  asked  Dorothy  to  marry 
me,  and  she  says  she  will." 

Mr.  Grandison  sighed,  frankly  and  openly,  and 
said:  "Oh,  dear  me!" 

194 


His  Daughter 

And  at  once  the  lines  in  his  face,  dug  by  care 
and  responsibility,  seemed  to  darken  and  deepen. 
Still,  a  smile  flickered  in  one  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"That  is  a  shock,"  he  said,  "which  the  flesh  of 
all  male  parents  is  heir  to  ...  but  Dorothy,  Mr. 
Dayton,  is  much  too  young  to  think  of  marriage." 

"I  know  she  is,"  said  Dayton,  "but  all  the 
same  she  is  thinking  about  it.  We've  been  think- 
ing about  it  ever  since  we  were  in  Egypt.  So  it 
isn't  as  if  we  weren't  sure  of  our  sentiments, 
is  it?" 

"Can  you  support  a  wife  ?" 

Dayton  did  not  like  to  say  that  his  mother 
was  on  her  death-bed  and  that  from  her  he  would 
inherit  an  income  sufficient  for  two  persons  whose 
wants  did  not  run  to  yachts.  Neither  did  he  like 
to  confess  that  he  himself  had  yet  to  earn  his  first 
cent.  So  he  said: 

"I've  had  a  good  training,  Mr.  Grandison;  I'm 
naturally  a  hard  worker,  and  if  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst  there's  a  certain  amount  of  money 
back  of  me.  Supporting  Dorothy  is  the  least 
thing  that  worries  me." 

"And  there  are  great  things  that  worry  you  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Unworthiness  is  the  great  thing.  I 
have  done  things  that  I  wish  to  heaven  I  hadn't 
done.  But  there's  nothing  with  a  string  to  it; 

I9S 


His  Daughter 

nothing  that  can  come  up  out  of  a  clear  sky  to 
hurt  Dorothy." 

And  he  thought  he  was  speaking  the  truth;  for 
he  had  no  inkling  that  a  seed  of  his  sowing  had 
sprouted  in  the  dark  and  that  he  had  given  a 
hostage  to  fortune. 

Mr.  Grandison  again  sighed  with  frankness  and 
openness. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  your  own  people?"  he 
asked  presently. 

"I've  told  my  mother,"  said  Dayton.  "My 
father  isn't  living." 

"And  doesn't  she  think  you  are  a  little  young  ?" 

Dayton  smiled.  "She  won't  approve  at  all 
until  she  knows  Dorothy.  And  I've  come  to  you, 
sir,  among  other  things,  to  ask  if  I  may  take 
Dorothy  to  see  my  mother.  My  poor  mother  is 
a  very  sick  woman " 

"I  am  concerned  to  hear  that." 

Dayton  explained  a  little. 

" — so  she  can't  possibly  get  well,  and  she's 
troubled  about  me,  and -it  will  be  such  a  comfort 
to  her  to  see  Dorothy  and  to  learn  for  herself 
into  what  good  keeping  I  want  to  give  my  life." 

"Dorothy,"  said  Mr.  Grandison,  "has  always 
done  pretty  much  as  she  pleased.  It's  not  that 
we  were  ever  slack  with  her,  but  that  she  was  just 

196 


His  Daughter 

naturally  one  of  those  children  who  always  seem 
to  be  on  the  track  of  doing  the  right  thing.  If 
she  has  set  her  heart  on  you,  Mr.  Dayton,  I  can 
only  say,  please  wait  until  she  is  a  little  older, 
and  then,  if  you  still  feel  the  same  way  about  each 
other,  why,  the  affair  may  legitimately  be  called 
your  own  and  no  one  else's.  Don't  misunder- 
stand me  when  I  say  that  I  am  sorry  that  she  has 
fixed  her  affections  so  early  in  life.  It  would  have 
been  more  satisfactory  to  know  that  she  had 
looked  about  a  little  before  making  her  choice. 
However" — and  here  he  smiled  in  a  really  friendly 
way,  and  held  out  his  hand — "I  have  always  had 
faith  in  my  little  daughter's  judgment." 

Dayton  gripped  the  extended  hand  hard. 

"I'll  try  to  be  a  good  son  to  you,"  he  said,  and 
a  moment  later,  since  neither  appeared  able  to 
think  up  anything  further  appropriate  to  the  sub- 
ject, the  weighty  interview  somewhat  lamely  ter- 
minated. 

"My  dear,"  said  his  mother,  when  he  had 
kissed  her,  "I've  had  a  visitor." 

"Not  Dorothy?" 

"She  had  just  a  moment  before  catching  her 
train." 

Dayton  was  smiling  broadly.  "And  now  you 
197 


His  Daughter 

believe  some  of  the  things  a  son  tells  a  mother 
about  his  best  girl." 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Dayton,  "that  she  has  the 
sweetest  and  purest  mind  of  any  girl  I  ever  knew. 
I  can't  tell  you  how  happy  I  feel  this  morning; 
how  very  happy !" 

"She  never  even  told  me  that  she  was  coming." 

"She  said  she  came  on  impulse,  that  she  couldn't 
help  coming.  She  brought  me  those  beautiful 
violets.  And  I  gave  her  a  little  picture  of  you 
when  you  were  a  baby — the  one  with  the  big 
gloves.  My  dear,  my  heart  tells  me  that  you 
have  found  a  treasure;  and  then  she  is  so  very 
lovely  to  the  eye." 

"I'm  so  glad  that  you  are  glad." 

"It  was  worth  a  bad  night." 

"You  had  a  bad  night  ? " 

"No  pain.     Just  sleeplessness." 

Mrs.  Dayton  was  to  have  another  bad  night — 
not  "just  sleeplessness,"  but  a  night  of  pain  lead- 
ing by  degrees  into  agony.  But  Dayton  was  not 
called;  she  would  not  let  them  call  him.  And 
indeed,  when  she  knew  that  presently  the  pain 
would  be  greater  than  she  could  bear  in  silence, 
she  made  them  shut  her  door  and  hang  a  heavy 
curtain  over  it  so  that  those  cries  and  exclamations 
which  she  had  no  longer  the  power  to  repress 

198 


His  Daughter 

should  not  disturb  his  sleep.  He  slept  like  a  top, 
and  in  the  morning,  before  he  was  even  out  of 
bed,  received  a  note  from  Lady  Muriel  con- 
taining the  simple  but  expressive  words:  "Five 
o'clock." 

Well,  he  would  have  to  go.  He  couldn't  very 
well  break  off  with  Lady  Muriel  by  letter.  He 
had  offered  to  marry  her  and  she  had  refused  him. 
He  would  tell  her  gently  but  firmly  that  henceforth 
they  must  be  strangers.  It  was  very  easy  to  lie 
in  bed  and  say  his  say;  but  as  five  o'clock  ap- 
proached he  became  distinctly  nervous  and  ap- 
prehensive. He  admired  his  new  armor  of  right- 
eousness and  thought  well  of  it;  but  he  had  yet  to 
prove  it  in  the  field. 

And  he  had  no  sooner  stepped  into  Lady 
Muriel's  sitting-room  than  Lady  Muriel  made  a 
distinct  dent  in  that  armor.  For  she  murmured 
something  about  "at  last,"  and  laced  her  arms 
tightly  about  him  and  pressed  her  mouth  to  his. 

Dayton's  armor  of  righteousness  suffered  a 
frightful  dent  in  this  assault.  His  heart  began  to 
beat  furiously,  and  to  appear  cool  and  self-pos- 
sessed caused  him  the  greatest  effort  that  he  had 
ever  made  in  his  life.  But  somehow  or  other  he 
managed  not  to  return  her  embrace  and  not  to 
return  her  kiss.  And  so  it  was  that  the  new 

199 


His  Daughter 

armor  of  righteousness  was  not  pierced,  but  only 
greatly  dented. 

Lady  Muriel's  arms  dropped  to  her  sides,  and 
she  backed  slowly  away  from  him. 

"For  goodness*  sake,"  she  said,  "what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?" 

"I've  come,"  Dayton  faltered,  "to  say — to  tell 
you- 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  came  to  tell  the  rug  or 
the  fire-dogs — so  look  at  me." 

Dayton  looked  at  her  but  could  say  nothing. 

"Well — out  with  it — who  is  she?" 

"She's  the  girl  I'm  going  to  marry,"  said  Day- 
ton very  quietly.  And  so " 

"But  day  before  yesterday  you  were  here  with 
me  in  this — no,  not  in  this  room." 

"I  know,"  said  Dayton. 

She  laughed  harshly. 

"And  you  said,"  said  she,  "that  in  my 
arms " 

"I  know  what  I  said." 

"But  you  didn't  mean  it." 

"I  suppose  I  meant  it  when  I  said  it." 

"You  said  that  even  death  would  be  sweet — 
and  then  you  run  around  the  corner  and,  such 
is  the  illimitable  nature  of  your  amorousness, 
engage  yourself  to  be  married.  ...  Is  the  mar- 

200 


His  Daughter 

riage  absolutely  necessary  ?  Surely  a  man  like 
you  .  .  ." 

"Please  don't,"  said  Dayton.  "The  abuse  that 
I  deserve  is  so  obvious  that  it  doesn't  seem  worth 
while  to  go  into  details.  There  is  nothing  that 
you  can  say  to  me  that  I  haven't  said  to  myself." 

She  came  closer  to  him. 

"You've  got  a  holier-than-thou  expression  at 
this  moment  which  tickles  my  risibles.  .  .  . 
You're  not  going  to  be  faithful  to  this  lady  after 
marriage.  If  you  don't  know  that,  you're  a  fool." 

The  telephone  at  this  moment  rang  sharply. 
Lady  Muriel  placed  the  receiver  at  her  ear. 

"Who  ?  Mr.  Drummond  ?  Hold  the  wire " 

She  covered  the  mouthpiece  of  the  telephone  with 
one  hand  and,  turning  to  Dayton,  said  quietly: 

"What  shall  I  say,  Fred?" 

"I'm  going  in  just  a  moment,  Muriel." 

"Right-o!"  She  turned  and  spoke  into  the 
receiver.  "I  am  at  home.  You  may  show  him 
up." 

"I  know  you  despise  me — "  Dayton  began 
humbly. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I've  never  yet  cried  over  spilt  milk,"  she  said. 
She  drew  a  deep  breath.  Then  she  smiled. 

"You're  afraid  of  me,  aren't  you?"  she  said, 

201 


His  Daughter 

"afraid  that  I'll  play  the  bad  fairy  in  your  new 
happiness  ?  I  shan't.  I've  got  a  certain  sense 
of  justice.  You  did  offer  to  marry  me,  and  I  re- 
fused. If  I  don't  want  you  to  belong  to  somebody 
else  I  have  only  myself  to  blame.  Do  you  know 
why  I  refused  to  marry  you  ?  No,  you  don't. 
I'll  tell  you  now.  I  refused  to  marry  you  because 
I  am  a  bad  egg  and  because  I  love  you.  If  you 
think  I  am  just  a  sly  woman  of  ungovernable  pas- 
sions you  are  wrong.  My  love  for  you  is  greater 
than  my  passion.  That  is  why  I  shall  say  good- 
by  to  you  calmly  and  not  cut  my  throat  after 
you've  gone.  I'd  rather  be  boiled  in  oil  than 
hurt  you  in  any  way.  Only  your  own  mother 
can  say  that  much.  You'll  get  no  such  love  from 
the  girl  you  are  going  to  marry.  You'll  not  be 
faithful  to  that  girl;  you  are  too  attractive  to 
women  and  you've  got  altogether  too  much  tem- 
perament. But  the  shadow  that  eventually  comes 
into  your  young  lives  will  not  be  Muriel  Strange. 
.  .  .  And  now,  dear  boy,  because  I'm  so  very 
sorry  for  myself,  put  your  arms  around  me  and 
kiss  me  good-by." 

He  kissed  her,  oddly  enough,  with  a  kind  of 
awe  and  reverence,  and  at  that  moment  Drum- 
mond,  the  millionaire,  knocked  upon  the  door. 

"Ah,"  said  Lady  Muriel,  "I'm  so  relieved  you've 
202 


His  Daughter 

come.  Poor,  dear  Dayton  was  beginning  to  bore 
me." 

Drummond's  small  eyes  brightened  with  un- 
alloyed pleasure.  And,  the  door  having  closed 
upon  Dayton,  he  proceeded  at  once,  and  for  the 
hundredth  time,  to  lay  his  millions  at  Lady 
Muriel's  feet.  This  time  Lady  Muriel  was  very 
decided  with  him. 

"Drummond,"  she  said,  "you've  made  that 
offer  once  too  often.  I  accept.  And  the  conse- 
quences are  on  your  own  head." 

"Good !"  cried  Drummond  in  an  ecstasy;  "and 
I  was  beginning  to  think  you  cared  for  that  Day- 
ton fellow." 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  I'm  beginning  to  care 
for  you,  do  you  ?" 

Drummond  fairly  roared  with  laughter.  "What 
a  woman  you  are  !"  he  exclaimed. 

Gradually  Dayton  began  to  do  a  little  work. 
Owing  to  his  mother's  condition  he  did  not  rent  a 
studio,  but  carried  his  paraphernalia  into  a  north- 
lighted  attic  room  in  his  mother's  house.  Here 
for  several  hours  a  day  he  modelled,  drew,  or  de- 
signed as  the  spirit  moved  him.  He  made  busts 
of  his  mother's  nurses;  of  the  cook  who  had  come 
into  the  family  the  year  he  was  born.  And  he 

203 


His  Daughter 

drew  and  colored  many  designs  for  gardens  and 
garden  furniture — benches,  fountains,  and  sun- 
dials. 

One  thing  greatly  troubled  him — Claire's  silence. 
Some  of  his  many  letters  must  have  reached  her. 
He  felt  sure  of  that.  Why,  then,  did  she  send 
him  no  word  ?  That  something  serious  might 
have  happened  to  her,  that  her  life  even  might 
have  been  snuffed  out,  never  occurred  to  him. 
To  the  young  trie  possibility  of  death  is  not  be- 
lievable. Nor  did  it  occur  to  him  that  in  her  dis- 
tress at  finding  him  gone  she  might  have  failed  to 
look  under  the  loose  tile  in  the  hearth. 

Finally,  always  addressing  her  at  the  studio,  he 
wrote  her  as  tenderly  and  gently  as  he  could,  tell- 
ing her  a  fact  that  for  some  time  now  she  must 
have  gathered  from  his  letters  (if  she  had  received 
them).  He  wrote  her  that  he  was  going  to  be 
married.  But  he  said  he  felt  it  his  privilege  to 
provide  for  her  future,  and  he  named  a  sum  of 
money  which  he  proposed  to  forward  as  soon  as 
he  should  receive  an  address  at  which  the  draft 
would  surely  find  her. 

He  did  not  write  this  letter  until  May.  And 
not  until  it  was  written  did  he  feel  that  his  life 
was  no  longer  complicated  by  Claire  D'Avril.  He 
had  been  unsparing  in  his  efforts  to  locate  her  and 

204 


His  Daughter 

to  be  as  kind  to  her  as  his  circumstances  war- 
ranted. And  if  he  could  not  explain  her  silence, 
it  was  at  least  one  of  the  facts  of  existence — for 
which  he  saw  no  reason  to  blame  himself. 

Another  thing  troubled  Dayton  through  that 
winter  and  spring.  That  temperament  of  his, 
awakened  by  an  Arab  dancer,  nursed  almost  into 
habit  by  Claire,  and  matured  and  inflamed  by 
Lady  Muriel  Strange,  gave  him  very  little  peace. 
The  need,  not  of  any  particular  woman,  but  of 
woman  in  general,  harassed  him,  joggled  his  elbow 
when  he  drew,  and  broke  his  sleep.  If  he  found 
himself  looking  forward  to  marriage  as  a  solution 
of  his  difficulties,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  smirched  a 
lily.  It  was  as  if,  having  placed  his  Dorothy  upon 
a  pedestal  of  holiness,  he  was  flinging  mud  at 
her. 

Though  he  could  not  conquer  his  temperament 
either  by  work  or  by  exercise  or  by  wishing,  he 
succeeded  at  least  in  holding  it  in  leash.  His 
thoughts  at  times,  however,  he  could  not  hold. 
Sometimes  it  was  as  if  he,  standing  aside  and  beg- 
ging them  by  all  that  was  sacred  not  to,  simply 
revelled  in  sin  and  wickedness.  In  short,  he  found 
the  strength  to  keep  the  letter  of  faithfulness  but 
not  the  spirit. 

He  awakened  very  early  one  morning  and  could 
205 


His  Daughter 

not  go  to  sleep  again.  A  deep-throated  bell  struck 
three  times.  He  felt  feverish  and  unhappy.  He 
tried  to  think  of  Dorothy  and  the  sweetness  and 
trustfulness  that  would  be  their  life  together.  In- 
stead he  kept  thinking  of  the  night  when  Claire 
had  not  gone  home;  of  the  night  when  Lady  Muriel 
had  said:  "Don't  be  a  fool.  Kiss  me.'* 

Presently  he  got  up,  washed  his  face  and  hands, 
put  on  his  bath-robe,  and  went  out  into  the  hall. 
It  was  not  unusual  for  his  mother  to  be  awake 
at  that  hour.  If  she  happened  to  be  awake  now 
he  would  pay  her  a  little  visit,  and  they  would 
talk  about  Dorothy. 

But  no  light  came  through  his  mother's  door. 
He  listened  attentively  and  heard  the  murmuring 
of  his  mother's  voice.  Then  he  knocked  very 
gently,  and  a  moment  later  the  door  was  opened 
a  few  inches,  and,  the  heavy  portiere  which  had 
been  drawn  across  it  being  displaced,  he  saw  that 
there  was  a  light  in  the  room  and  in  that  light  he 
saw  the  troubled  and  grieved  face  of  the  night 
nurse. 

"Is  my  mother  awake  ?"  he  whispered. 

"She's  very  bad  to-night,"  said  the  nurse. 
"She  wouldn't  want  you  to  see  her,  Mr.  Dayton." 

"She's  suffering?" 

"She's  having  one  of  her  attacks.  You  can't 
do  anything.  Nobody  can.  Go  away,  please. 

206 


His  Daughter 

She's  given  orders.     She  doesn't  want  you  to  see 
her  suffer." 

At  that  moment  a  voice  rose  in  the  room.  It 
was  a  calm,  dispassionate  voice  that  spoke  with 
clear  emphasis  and  was  more  moving  to  the  lis-1 
teners  than  screaming. 

"This  is  bad!"  said  the  voice.  "Heavenly 
Father,  this  is  very  bad.  This  is  more  than  I  can 
bear.  This  ought  to  be  the  last  time  I  am  asked 
to  go  through  such  pain.  God  help  me!  Christ 
spare  me !  Christ,  if  by  any  chance  you  remem- 
ber how  it  felt  when  they  drove  the  nails  through 
your  hands  and  insteps,  spare  me!" 

Then  there  was  silence. 

"She  is  dying!"  exclaimed  Dayton. 

The  nurse  shook  her  head. 

"No — no — no!  Please  go  away.  She'll  find 
that  you  are  here.  She'll  never  forgive  me.  She 
doesn't  want  you  to  know." 

"I'm  not  a  child,"  said  Dayton.  "I  must 
know  and  have  my  share  of  this  torture."  And 
he  pushed  past  her  into  the  room.  But  Mrs. 
Dayton's  paroxysm  was  over  just  as  if  Christ  had 
actually  recalled  the  pain  of  the  nails  and  decided 
for  the  moment  to  spare  her.  Exhausted  almost 
to  the  point  of  death,  she  had  fallen  into  a  deep 
sleep.  Her  handsome  face  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  cut  out  of  gray  stone. 

207 


His  Daughter 

Dayton's  nerves  went  all  to  pieces.  It  was  all 
he  could  do  to  restrain  his  sobs  until  he  got  out 
of  the  room.  He  blundered  back  to  his  bed,  sob- 
bing like  a  child,  and,  strangely  enough,  sleep 
came  to  him.  It  was  as  if  his  strength  had  been 
utterly  exhausted. 

It  was  noon  of  the  next  day  before  his  mother 
sent  for  him.  Neither  of  them  referred  to  the 
night;  but  the  mother  knew  that  the  son  knew, 
and  there  was  thenceforth  to  the  end  a  stronger 
and  tenderer  bond  between  them. 

To  see  her  son  actually  settled  before  she  died 
had  become  an  obsession  with  Mrs.  Dayton.  So 
she  took  the  matter  into  her  own  hands  and  in 
the  end,  being  a  strong-willed  and  persuasive 
woman,  had  her  way.  In  securing  Dorothy's  co- 
operation and  Dayton's  she  had  no  difficulty;  and 
Mrs.  Grandison  and  her  husband,  finding  it  im- 
possible to  refuse  the  sick  woman's  request,  gave 
their  half-hearted  consent  to  an  early  marriage. 
It  was  only  inwardly,  however,  that  their  consent 
was  half-hearted.  To  Mrs.  Dayton,  to  the  young 
people,  to  their  friends,  and  to  the  world  at  large 
they  showed,  not  resignation,  but  what  seemed 
genuine  enthusiasm.  "As  long  as  it  must  be," 
they  said  to  each  other,  "it  is  best  for  every  one 

208 


His  Daughter 

concerned  now,  and  in  the  long  run,  that  we  ap- 
pear delighted  with  the  arrangement." 

They  were  very  quietly  married  at  Mrs.  Day- 
ton's bedside.  The  bishop  of  New  York  pre- 
sided, and  only  Dorothy's  parents  and  her  brothers 
were  present.  Dayton  was  embarrassed  and  ill  at 
ease.  Everybody  was  except  the  bishop,  Mrs. 
Dayton,  and  Dorothy. 

Even  her  brothers  thought  that  they  had  never 
seen  so  lovely  a  face.  In  her  eyes  was  a  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land.  Her  voice,  her  beauty, 
her  dignity  transformed  the  sick-room  into  a 
chapel.  She  did  not  need  silk  and  point-lace  to 
make  her  look  altogether  bewitching. 

Dayton's  heart  swelled  and  yearned  with  sor- 
row and  faithfulness,  for  he  knew  very  well  that, 
much  as  he  loved  her,  he  could  never  love  her  as 
she  deserved  to  be  loved.  It  seemed  to  him  al- 
most awful  that  she  should  be  giving  herself  to 
him.  The  thought  that  very  soon  now  he  must 
possess  her  body  as  already  he  possessed  her  soul 
obtruded  and  gave  him,  not  pleasure,  but  pain. 
Oh,  if  only  he  had  for  her  the  same  gifts  of  purity 
and  single-heartedness  that  she  had  for  him !  To 
have  been  at  the  moment  a  man  who,  though 
tempted,  had  remained  pure,  he  would  have  given, 
without  a  moment's  hesitation,  his  right  hand. 

209 


His  Daughter 

Had  she  enough  worldly  wisdom  to  know  that 
the  average  man  is  not  pure  ?  Would  she  ever 
ask  him  questions  ?  No.  She  had  a  love  and 
loyalty  that  would  sweep  all  possible  doubts  away. 
But  if  such  questions  ever  should  come  up,  he 
knew  very  well  that  he  would  not  tell  her  the  truth. 
He  would  lie;  and  she  would  believe  him.  He 
would  lie,  he  told  himself,  only  because  it  would 
be  kinder  to  lie. 

He  had  kissed  her.  They  were  man  and  wife. 
And  presently,  with  no  throwing  of  rice  or  slip- 
pers, they  had  departed  on  their  honeymoon.  It 
was  to  be  very  short.  They  were  going  for  a  few 
days  to  a  little  cottage  on  Long  Island  that  a  friend 
of  Dayton's  had  loaned  him.  Their  baggage  had 
preceded  them. 

To  Dayton  the  quiet,  well-trained  servants  that 
had  been  loaned  with  the  house  had  about  a  thou- 
sand eyes  apiece.  They  seemed  furtive,  spying 
creatures;  the  kind  of  servants  who,  when  doors 
are  suddenly  opened  in  plays,  are  discovered  to 
have  been  kneeling  at  the  keyhole.  To  Dorothy 
the  servants  seemed  friendly  human  beings.  She 
was  not  ashamed  of  love  or  any  of  its  manifesta- 
tions. And  with  all  her  heart  and  soul  she  looked 
forward  to  belonging  utterly  to  her  husband. 
She  was  without  fear  or  false  modesty. 

It  seemed  to  Dayton  in  those  first  days  of  his 
210 


His  Daughter 

marriage  that  a  man  and  his  wife  might  be  men- 
tally as  far  apart  as  the  poles  and  yet  find  hap- 
piness if  their  desire  was  greatly  to  each  other. 
But  mentally  he  and  Dorothy  were  by  no  means 
far  apart.  They  had  a  hundred  tastes  in  com- 
mon; indeed,  their  mental  systems  had  come  into 
such  close  contact  that  often  one  would  laughingly 
snatch  the  remainder  of  a  phrase  from  the  other's 
mouth. 

Dayton  had  sometimes  thought  that  Dorothy 
was  of  too  fine  and  fastidious  a  strain  to  bring  to 
the  facts  of  marriage  anything  but  a  dutiful  sub- 
mission. He  was  entirely  mistaken.  Her  love  for 
him  had  no  reticences.  She  was  neither  bold  nor 
shy.  She  rejoiced  openly  in  the  fact  that  he  was 
a  man  and  that  she  was  a  woman. 

And  so  passed  nearly  a  week  with  its  happy 
chatterings,  its  delirious  and  its  splendid  silences. 
Then  in  the  night  some  one  knocked  on  their  door, 
and  Dayton,  his  heart  full  of  fear,  rose  and  went 
down-stairs  and  listened  at  the  telephone,  and  said 
that  he  would  come  as  soon  as  possible.  Then 
there  was  a  frantic  midnight  dressing,  a  hasty 
throwing  of  a  few  necessaries  into  travelling-bags, 
and  a  law-breaking  motor  drive  back  to  the  city 
and  to  the  house  from  which  word  had  come  to 
them  that  Mrs.  Dayton  was  dying. 

It  was  a  moment  which  Dayton  had  lived  so 
211 


His  Daughter 

often  in  anticipation  of  that  his  faculties  seemed 
numbed  to  its  actualities.  He  had  pictured  and 
steeled  himself  to  a  scene  of  heart-breaking  fare- 
wells. He  had  imagined  childishly  that  dying  per- 
sons remained  until  the  very  last  moment  in  full 
possession  of  their  faculties.  It  did  not  seem  to 
him  possible  that  he  could  face  a  person  who  was 
about  to  undergo  so  tremendous  an  experience. 
It  seemed  to  him  almost  as  if  he  ought  not  to  look 
at  his  mother. 

The  disease  had  eaten  down  the  wall  of  a  deep- 
seated  artery,  and  at  first  slowly  and  now  very 
rapidly  she  was  bleeding  to  death.  Already  she 
had  lapsed  into  complete  unconsciousness  and  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  all  heartaches  and  anxieties. 

Dayton  and  Dorothy  had  reached  the  house  in 
time  to  be  with  her  when  she  died.  But  at  what 
precise  moment  her  soul  crossed  the  border  line 
which  is  drawn  between  life  and  death  they  did 
not  know.  Dayton  thought  that  she  was  still 
alive  when  the  doctor  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  said  a  few  words  in  his  natural  tone  of  voice 
(hitherto  he  had  spoken  in  a  hushed  voice),  and 
Dayton  understood  that  his  mother  was  dead. 

He  felt  no  emotion  suitable  to  the  occasion; 
only  a  kind  of  lassitude  and  a  general  emptiness. 

212 


His  Daughter 

Yet  not  to  save  his  life  would  he  have  suggested  a 
cup  of  coffee.  He  knelt  by  his  mother's  bed  and 
kissed  her  granite-gray  forehead,  then  he  realized 
that  Dorothy  had  slid  her  arm  around  him  and 
was  drawing  him  from  the  room.  She  made  him 
go  down-stairs  to  the  dining-room,  where,  un- 
known to  her  husband,  she  had  ordered  coffee  to 
be  served.  There  was  a  coal  fire,  all  the  lights 
were  lighted,  and  the  coffee-urn  gleamed  at  one 
end  of  the  dark,  polished  table. 

"I'm  glad  it's  over,"  he  said.  "Nobody  knows 
how  terribly  she  suffered." 

"Shall  I  pour  the  coffee?" 

Dayton  smiled  at  her  a  little  grimly. 

"I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me," 
he  said.  "I  don't  feel  the  way  I  know  I  ought  to 
feel.  I  only  feel  as  if  I  was  very  empty  and  had 
been  up  all  night.  It  can't  be  because  I  haven't 
any  heart,  because  one  night  I  heard  her  when 
she  was  suffering  and  I  sobbed  and  cried  like  a 
child." 

But  some  emotion  was  working  in  him,  for 
when  he  lifted  his  cup  of  coffee  his  hand  shook  so 
that  the  contents  slopped  over  into  the  saucer. 

A  thousand  times  during  their  engagement  and 
their  brief  honeymoon  he  had  called  her  his  trea- 
sure— his  comfort.  But  not  until  now  had  she 

213 


His  Daughter 

had  the  chance  to  prove  that  these  were  not  mere 
terms  of  endearment. 

Of  his  bereavement,  of  her  wish  that  she  might 
restore  his  mother  to  him,  she  said  nothing.  She 
behaved  with  perfect  naturalness,  and  even  in  the 
trying  conditions  of  a  room  harshly  lighted  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning  managed  to  look 
lovely.  She  made  him  drink  a  cup  of  coffee,  and 
as  soon  as  she  had  heard  from  his  own  lips  that  he 
couldn't  possibly  touch  a  mouthful  of  food,  she 
had  some  eggs  boiled  and  made  him  eat  them. 
Then  she  announced,  in  the  tone  of  voice  of  one 
accustomed  to  such  experiences,  that  they  would 
need  all  their  energies  to  go  through  with  the  work 
of  the  next  few  days  and  that  it  was  time  to  turn 
in  and  get  some  sleep. 

Left  to  himself,  Dayton  would  have  made  a 
point  of  suffering  as  much  as  possible.  But  in 
Dorothy's  hands  he  was  as  wet  clay.  She  trun- 
dled him  off  to  bed,  and  there,  wrapped  in  her  firm 
and  tender  arms,  he  shed  those  tears  which  it  was 
natural  that  he  should  shed,  and  slept  presently 
— all  still  and  peaceful,  like  a  little  child. 

All  through  the  next  day  he  kept  wondering 
where,  when,  and  how  Dorothy  had  learned  to 
do  so  many  things.  To  arrange  for  even  a  simple 
modern  funeral  is  only  less  complicated  than  mo- 

214 


His  Daughter 

bilizing  an  army.  Where  had  Dorothy  learned 
the  ropes  ?  Who  had  told  her  just  how  many 
notices  there  must  be  in  the  papers  ?  How  did 
you  get  a  notice  into  a  paper,  anyway  ?  How  did 
you  know  they  would  print  it  for  you  ?  Where 
had  she  learned  the  red-tapes  of  churches  ? 
Who  had  told  her  that  Mrs.  Dayton  wished  to 
be  buried  in  St.  Peter's  churchyard,  Westchester  ? 
She  even  had  no  trouble  in  finding  out  the  name 
of  the  organist  of  that  church  and  in  communicat- 
ing to_him  by  telephone  the  numbers  of  the  hymns 
which  Mrs.  Dayton  had  wished  to  have  sung  at 
her  funeral.  When  and  how  had  Dorothy  learned 
the  names  of  those  hymns  ?  She  was  a  miracle 
— that  wife  of  his.  Before  breakfast  she  had  in- 
terviewed all  the  servants,  given  the  orders,  and 
taken  over  the  management  of  the  house.  And, 
later  in  the  day,  she  showed  that  the  death-cham- 
ber itself  had  for  her  neither  strangeness  nor  diffi- 
culties. She  was  in  and  out  of  it  as  naturally 
as  if  it  had  been  a  garden,  attending  to  all  that 
needed  attention  with  loving  and  unflagging  effi- 
ciency. 

Toward  afternoon  the  gray  look  went  out  of 
Mrs.  Dayton's  face  and  gave  place  to  a  youthful 
and  tender  coloring,  the  grimly  set  mouth  relaxed 
and  seemed  to  smile.  Dorothy  had  taken  posses- 

215 


His  Daughter 

sion  of  the  dead  woman's  writing-desk.  Here  she 
found  time  to  write  brief  notes  of  thanks  to  those 
who  had  already  added  to  the  general  complica- 
tions by  sending  flowers  and  to  file  for  future 
answering  the  despatches  and  letters  that  had 
already  begun  to  come  in. 

Late  that  night  Mrs.  Dayton  was  lifted  from 
her  bed  to  her  coffin  and  carried  down  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  the  funeral  services  were  to 
be  held  on  the  day  following. 

Dayton  shut  himself  up  in  his  own  room  while 
this  was  going  on.  But  Dorothy  saw  the  business 
through.  Her  husband,  she  thought  afterward, 
when  he  came  to  think  about  it,  would  be  glad. 
It  was  a  trying  business  for  Dorothy.  Years  after- 
ward one  phase  of  it  had  power  to  torment  her 
memory.  Mrs.  Dayton's  right  arm  had  stiffened 
at  quite  an  interval  from  her  side.  It  stuck  out 
like  the  wing  of  a  trussed  fowl,  and  it  took  the 
united  strength  of  the  undertaker  and  his  assistant 
to  force  it  into  the  coffin. 

The  door  of  Dayton's  room  opened  softly. 

"Will  you  come  down  to  the  drawing-room  and 
see  if  everything's  all  right?" 

He  came  obediently.  They  paused  by  the  door 
of  his  mother's  room.  He  swallowed  hard.  Into 
that  room  he  would  never  go  running  again  with 

216 


His  Daughter 

his  little  joys  and  his  little  troubles — sure  of  sym- 
pathy, sure  of  comfort,  sure  of  justice. 

When  they  had  entered  the  drawing-room  he 
left  Dorothy  and  walked  straight  to  the  coffin 
and  stood  for  a  little  while  looking  at  his  mother's 
face.  The  face  was  smiling,  and  so  he  smiled. 

Then,  upon  a  sudden  impulse,  he  took  up  that 
section  of  the  coffin  cover  which  goes  over  the 
head  of  the  coffin,  put  it  in  place,  and  screwed 
down  the  thumbscrews.  Then  he  turned  to 
Dorothy. 

"You'll  have  to  arrange  the  flowers  a  little  dif- 
ferently," he  said.  "But  she  looked  so  happy 
and  smiling.  I  want  to  remember  her  like  that. 
And  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  outsiders  should 
come  and  stare  at  her.  .  .  .  Dorothy,  darling, 
I  can't  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am  to  you  for 
everything,  and  if — if  I'm  not  good  to  you  always, 
God  torture  me!" 


217 


VI 

AS  nearly  as  the  historian  can  judge,  Nature, 
JL\.  who  never  sleeps,  had  seized  joyously  upon 
the  very  first  occasion  which  the  Daytons  had 
offered  her  to  justify  their  marriage  in  the  eyes  of 
men  and  gods  and  each  other. 

Dayton  must  have  had  prophetic  qualities,  for 
he  loved  his  child  before  she  was  born.  That  love 
came  to  him  even  with  the  first  suspicion  that 
there  was  going  to  be  a  child.  It  became  almost 
emotional  with  the  certainty.  Already  was  estab- 
lished that  bond,  transcending,  perhaps,  in  beauty 
and  unselfishness  all  other  bonds,  which  some- 
times attaches  a  father  to  his  daughter. 

The  historian  has  failed  lamentably  if  he  has 
not  made  it  very  clear  that  Dayton's  emotions 
were  easily  led.  But  it  would  be  difficult  to  pro- 
duce a  man  in  whom  was  no  faithfulness  what- 
ever. And  from  the  moment  of  her  arrival  in 
the  world  Dayton  had  for  his  daughter  a  veritable 
passion  of  understanding  and  attachment  which 
was  never  to  become  stereotyped  or  stale.  He 
always  regretted  that  he  had  not  had  the  daring 
to  see  her  born.  He  had  missed  her  first  cry  and 

218 


His  Daughter 

the  first  half-hour  of  her  existence.  That  he  had 
failed  his  wife  during  the  hours  when  she  had 
most  needed  him  never  occurred  to  him.  He  had 
offered  to  be  present.  She  had  said  that  she 
would  not  have  him  present  for  anything,  and  he, 
average  blundering  man  that  he  was,  had  believed 
her.  Not  many  men  subject  themselves  to  the 
ordeal  of  seeing  a  child  come  into  the  world. 
That  is  a  mistake.  For  when  a  man  asks  a  girl 
to  marry  him  he  should  be  able  to  say:  "I  love 
her  enough  to  make  up  even  that  to  her." 

She  had  blue  eyes.  She  yawned  in  his  face 
calmly  and  with  studied  insolence,  as  a  lion  yawns. 
She  smiled  a  wide-open,  a  gummy,  a  delectable 
smile.  She  gripped  his  finger.  The  warmth  of 
her  hand,  shaped  like  a  clinging  starfish,  leaped 
like  an  electric  current  to  his  heart.  And  this 
beat  like  that  of  an  untrained  man  who  has  just 
run  swiftly  up  a  steep  stair.  Still  gripping  his 
finger,  she  slept. 

He  had  been  through  a  great  emotional  experi- 
ence. For  twenty  hours,  and  for  his  sake,  a 
woman  had  been  in  anguish.  From  her  mouth, 
the  home  of  a  soft  and  lovely  voice,  chapped  now 
by  chloroform,  there  came  only  a  hoarse  whisper. 
Dorothy  looked  so  thin  and  wasted  he  thought 
she  must  be  dying.  That  the  nurse  laughed  at 

219 


His  Daughter 

his  fears  did  not  diminish  the  fact  that  he  had 
experienced  them  .  .  .  still  gripping  his  finger, 
the  little  daughter  slept.  Tears  gathered  in  Day- 
ton's eyes,  and  overflowed  and  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

It  was  one  of  those  highly  concentrated  mo- 
ments when  the  good  that  a  man  has  done,  the 
evil,  his  failures,  his  success,  no  longer  have  a 
place  even  in  his  subconsciousness.  There  existed 
for  Dayton  nothing  but  the  intensity  of  emotion 
which  had  been  roused  in  him  by  a  yawn,  a  smile, 
and  the  grip  of  a  little  hand. 

If  at  that  moment  a  spirit  had  touched  him  on 
the  shoulder  and  said:  "Your  wife  is  not  the  only 
woman  who  has  gone  through  hell  for  you,  nor 
is  this  red  and  wrinkled  thing  your  only  daughter. 
But  you  have  never  seen  the  other.  She  too,  in 
the  first  hour  of  her  life,  yawned  and  smiled,  and 
she  would  have  gripped  too,  if  you  had  been 
there  to  hold  out  your  finger  to  her.  But  there 
were  only  poor  Claire  D'Avril  and  the  slovenly 
old  midwife — "  It  is  doubtful  if  Dayton  would 
have  heard. 

A  judgment  of  Dayton  should  not  be  without 
leniency.  If  he  had  known  that  Claire  D'Avril 
was  to  have  a  baby  he  would  not  have  deserted 
her.  He  was  not  the  kind  of  man  who  makes  an 

220 


His  Daughter 

open  issue  with  fate.  It  is  quite  likely  that,  led 
by  emotion  and  real  tenderness,  and  driven  by 
remorse,  he  might  have  married  her.  We  do 
know  that,  baby  or  no  baby,  he  had  every  inten- 
tion of  keeping  her  supplied  with  money  and  even, 
for  a  time,  with  love.  Some  men  would  have  kept 
on  writing  letters  longer  than  Dayton  did;  for 
constancy  varies  in  duration,  not  intensity;  but 
no  man,  if  never  an  answer  came  to  any  of  the 
letters,  would  have  kept  on  writing  them  forever. 
Because  he  yielded  easily  to  temptation  is  no 
proof  that  Dayton  did  not  know  the  difference 
between  right  and  wrong.  He  knew  it  perfectly 
well,  and  he  honestly  felt  that  he  had  given  Claire 
D'Avril  a  square  deal.  He  honestly  thought  that 
she  must  have  received  some  of  his  letters  and, 
for  reasons  easily  guessed,  was  ashamed  to  answer 
them.  A  girl  of  her  temperament  and  domestic 
instincts  could  not  exist  for  very  long  without 
love.  Sometimes,  with  an  odd  feeling  of  jealousy, 
he  wondered  what  the  new  lover  was  like. 

But  Marie  Claire's  temperament  and  domestic 
instincts  had  not  yet  thrown  her  into  the  arms  of 
another  lover. 

There  were  no  loving  hearts  to  give  Claire 
D'Avril  support  and  courage  as  her  time  drew 
near.  There  was  no  specialist  to  come  to  her  at 

221 


His  Daughter 

sixty  miles  an  hour  in  case  anything  went  wrong. 
With  the  exception  of  her  own  brave,  aching  heart, 
she  had  nothing  that  Dorothy  had — not  even 
money.  She  would  have,  when  she  had  paid  the 
greedy  old  midwife,  a  dark  and  narrow  room  with 
no  rugs  upon  its  stone  floor,  a  hard  little  bed,  a 
stiff  little  chair,  a  jug  of  water  if  she  chose  to 
fetch  it,  and  her  baby. 

But  one  day,  sick  and  frightened,  as  she  sat 
looking  out  of  her  own  window  at  the  only  pretty 
thing  that  was  hers  to  look  at — the  blue  sky — 
there  was  a  sharp  knocking  on  the  door,  and  a 
moment  later  Arnold  Charnowski  was  filling  the 
room  with  his  vivid  and  spectacular  personality. 

"You  have  not  come  to  me  lately,"  he  said,  "to 
see  if  there  was  any  letter.  So  I  became  anxious 
and  came  to  you." 

"How  did  you  find  out  where  I  lived  ?" 

"As  a  rule,"  said  Charnowski,  with  the  most 
engaging  frankness,  "I  prefer  mysteries  to  facts; 
but  this  is  a  very  simple  case.  I  paid  a  small  boy 
to  follow  you.  Pardon  me,  but  you  have  come 
to  the  end  of  your  money  ?" 

"I  shall  have  nothing  to  go  on  with,"  said 
Claire,  "but  I  shall  find  work." 

"After  some  weeks — yes.  But  in  the  mean- 
time?" 

222 


His  Daughter 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Don't  be  so  distant  with  me.  I  wished  to  be 
your  lover;  you  did  not  wish  that.  Very  well,  it 
is  over.  Now  I  wish  to  be  your  friend.  Don't 
you  want  my  friendship  either  ?  .  .  .  You  silly 
child,  I  ask  nothing  of  you,  except  the  privilege 
to  be  of  service.  God  has  wished  to  deceive  if 
he  has  not  written  in  my  face  that  I  have  a  heart." 

"I  would  like  to  trust  you,"  said  Claire,  in  a 
small  voice,  "but " 

"You  are  lonely  and  in  trouble,  yet  it  gives  you 
no  pleasure  to  see  me.  You  would  rather  starve 
than  take  the  help  I  offer.  It's  pathetic.  Do 
you  think  your  baby  will  feel  the  same  way  ? 
How  do  you  know  what  your  baby  is  going  to 
think  about  starving — you  who  do  not  even  know 
whether  that  baby  is  to  be  a  boy  or  a  girl  ?  You 
are  absurd." 

Claire  D'Avril  turned  her  head  and  seemed  to 
be  looking  at  the  blue  sky;  but  she  could  not  see 
it,  because  her  eyes  had  filled  with  tears. 

"I  refuse,"  said  Charnowski  gently,  "to  puff 
out  my  chest  and  blow  about  the  kind  of  man  I 
am.  There  is  no  use  telling  you  that  I  am  honest 
and  mean  to  do  right.  If  you  do  not  feel  these 
things  instinctively,  nothing  that  I  can  say  is 
going  to  change  you.  It  is  true  that  I  like  pretty 

223 


His  Daughter 

women;  but  I  am  no  fool.  I  know  perfectly  well 
when  a  woman  is  not  for  me.  I  have  learned  to 
like  you  and  respect  you  for  yourself.  That  has 
nothing  to  do  with  your  good  looks.  I  wish  to  be 
your  friend  and  to  help  you.  But  you  do  not 
trust  me.  I  read  you  like  a  book.  You  believe 
that  I  have  a  fixed  end  in  view;  that  offers  of  dis- 
interested friendship  and  of  help  are  only  a  cloak 
to  my  inherent  baseness.  You  are  even  planning 
to  change  your  habitation,  so  that  the  next  time 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  find  you.  You  think  that  I 
am  a  sort  of  spider  who  is  trying  to  catch  you  in 
a  net  of  hypocrisy.  .  .  .  My  dear  child,  I  under- 
stand perfectly.  It  is  natural  that  you  should 
feel  toward  me  as  you  do;  and  yet  it  is  a  great 
pity.  Still,  if  you  will  not  let  me  act  for  you 
directly,  I  must  do  what  I  can  indirectly.  I  shall 
speak  to  your  uncle." 

Claire  D'Avril  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant. 

"You  mustn't  do  that.  Already  he  has  done 
more  for  me  than  he  has  any  right  to  do.  I  have 
gone  out  of  their  lives.  They  think  I  have  gone 
away  somewhere  with  my  friend  They  do  not 
know  that  I  am  in  want — deserted.  ...  If  you 
told  them,  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  kill  you  !" 

Charnowski  nodded  gravely,  as  if  he  understood 
perfectly. 

224 


His  Daughter 

"If  there  were  degrees  of  impossibility,^'  he 
said,  "the  most  impossible  thing  would  be  to  go 
back  to  that  home  from  which  we  have  set  forth 
so  gayly  and  so  confidently  and  to  confess  that 
we  have  failed  utterly.  .  .  ."  He  struck  his  right 
fist  energetically  into  the  palm  of  his  left  hand 
and  in  a  vibrant  voice  exclaimed:  "Catch  me 
going  home  and  confessing  that  the  world  has  yet 
to  hear  me." 

"You  too  ?"  asked  Claire.     "Have  you  failed  ?" 

"Not  yet !"  said  Charnowski,  and  his  voice  was 
like  the  snapping  of  a  coach-whip.  He  paced  the 
room  for  half  a  minute,  by  turns  frowning  and 
smiling.  Then  he  broke  into  a  good-natured 
laugh. 

"You'd  rather  take  help  from  me  than  from 
your  uncle.  Is  that  a  fact  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Claire. 

"We  have,  then,  one  bond  in  common.  I  would 
rather  touch  Satan  for  a  loan  than  my  own  father, 
whom  I  love  and  revere,  and  who  would  lend 
gladly,  because  he  still  believes  in  me.  Let's  have 
no  more  nonsense,  young  lady.  I  will  see  you 
through  your  trial,  and  then,  if  you  wish  no  more 
of  my  friendship — "  he  snapped  his  strong  fingers 
and  said  "Phtt!" 

Every  day  or  so  Charnowski  came  to  see  her; 
225 


His  Daughter 

sometimes  he  stayed  a  long  time;  sometimes  he 
only  looked  in  for  a  moment.  He  was  kind  and 
practical,  but  reserved.  She  began  to  believe  in 
his  friendship.  And,  though  she  had  as  yet  taken 
no  money  from  him,  she  acquired  toward  him 
feelings  of  obligation  and  gratitude.  And  she 
talked  very  frankly  with  him  about  her  future. 

Deep  in  Claire  D'Avril's  heart  was  the  notion 
that  Dayton  would  come  back  to  her  some  day, 
and  that  when  he  discovered  that  there  was  a 
child  he  might  wish  to  marry  her.  There  would 
be  a  time  of  hardship  and  temptation,  but  in  the 
end  there  would  be  plenty  and  happiness.  In  this 
belief  Charnowski  encouraged  her.  He  was  a 
subtle  man. 

One  day  he  could  not  conceal  that  he  was  elated 
over  something. 

"We  are  in  luck,"  he  said.  "I  have  found  an 
excellent  position  for  you.  That  good  old  Lar- 
rousse  who  conducts  the  Tete  D'Or,  where  I  take 
most  of  my  meals,  has  dismissed  his  dame  du  comp- 
toir.  I  have  spoken  to  him  very  strongly  on  your 
behalf.  He  is  going  to  give  you  a  trial.  In  the 
meanwhile  his  daughter  has  consented  to  keep  the 
books.  The  pay  is  good,  the  hours  are  not  long. 
You  accept.  It  is  understood." 

"But  I  must  have  work  that  I  can  do  here." 
226 


His  Daughter 

Charnowski  shook  his  head.  "You  will  live  at 
the  Tete  D'Or,"  he  said.  "You  will  have  time 
not  only  to  make  the  change  for  the  customers, 
and  to  keep  the  old  man's  books,  but  to  look  after 
your  baby  as  well.  All  that  will  arrange  itself 
beautifully.  It  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  ap- 
pear so  conceited  and  pleased  with  myself.  But 
you  shall  not  work  until  you  are  able.  A  few 
weeks'  rest;  that  will  not  cost  you  much.  You 
will  accept  that  rest  as  a  loan  from  me.  Out  of 
your  wages  you  shall  pay  me  back.  Now  be  nice  ! 
Say  to  yourself:  'This  poor  Charnowski  is  really 
trying  to  be  my  friend,'  and  accept !" 

"How  kind  you  are!"  exclaimed  Claire. 

"Larrousse  is  a  good  old  soul,"  said  Charnow- 
ski. "You  know  his  place,  of  course.  Middle- 
class,  if  you  like,  but  quiet  and  respectable.  It 
is  not  frequented  by  the  type  of  men  who  might 
annoy  you." 

Charnowski  called  again  the  next  day;  but 
Claire  D'Avril  had  company.  For  some  hours 
she  had  been  a  mother.  But  it  was  more  as  if  she 
had  gone  out  into  the  streets,  seen  a  baby  that  she 
fancied,  and  brought  it  home  with  her.  A  little 
pale,  a  little  tremulous,  she  was  up  and  dressed. 
And  already  she  had  been  on  an  errand. 

"It  is  classic!  It  is  Roman!"  exclaimed  Char- 
227 


His  Daughter 

nowski.  And  his  eyes,  full  of  wonder,  roved  from 
Claire  D'Avril  to  the  tiny,  emotionless  figure, 
closely  swaddled,  that  lay  on  one  of  the  pillows 
at  the  head  of  the  bed. 

Claire  D'Avril  couldn't  help  boasting  a  little. 

"In  all  Madame  Aimee's  experience,"  she  said, 
"it  has  never  happened  so  easily  before.  What 
would  you  ?  I  am  not  without  courage.  I  did 
everything  she  told  me  to,  and  never  cried  out  at 
all.  But  perhaps  you  think  it  was  pleasant !" 

"May  Hook?" 

Charnowski  stepped  swiftly  to  the  bed,  and 
Claire  D'Avril  drew  aside  the  swaddling-clothes 
so  that  he  could  see  the  baby's  face. 

"But,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  is  not  a  wrinkled-up 
monkey;  it  is  a  human  being.  It  has  hair  and 
dimples.  That  is  not  an  ordinary  baby  at  all. 
That  is  a  little  cabbage,  a  treasure." 

After  that  speech  Claire  D'Avril  had  no  longer 
any  mistrust  of  Arnold  Charnowski.  Her  heart 
warmed  to  him. 

"But  tell  me,"  he  said.     "It's  a  son  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"Good,"  said  Charnowski,  "I  prefer  daughters. 
They  do  not  come  home  smelling  of  absinthe  and 
cigarettes." 

They  both  laughed.  Presently,  with  gentle 
gravity,  he  said: 

228 


His  Daughter 

"And  my  friendship  ?  You  have  decided  to 
accept  that  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Claire  D'Avril,  "I  have  misjudged 
you.  I  am  sorry." 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said. 

"And  in  a  very  few  days,"  she  said,  "I  can  go 
to  the  Tete  D'Or.  And  then  I  can  begin  paying 
you  back." 

Out  of  her  first  week's  wages  she  had  expected 
to  make  a  payment  to  Charnowski;  but  the  desti- 
tute condition  in  which  the  baby  had  come  into 
the  world  had  tempted  her  into  divers  extrava- 
gances. Charnowski  only  laughed.  He  said  he 
did  not  care  if  she  never  paid  him.  But  two 
months  later  she  owed  neither  Charnowski  nor 
any  other  man  a  penny.  If  this  was  a  discom- 
fiture to  Charnowski  he  swallowed  it  with  good 
grace. 

"Frankly,"  he  told  her,  "I  am  glad.  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  believe  in  the  disinterestedness  of  those 
to  whom  we  owe  money.  But  are  you  happy 
here?" 

"I  am  secure,"  said  Claire.  "Pere  Larrousse  is 
a  good  man.  My  baby  has  never  had  a  day's 
illness.  The  habitues  of  the  place  are  a  decent 
lot.  But  happiness  ?  That  is  a  strong  word. 
For  more  often  I  feel  like  crying  than  laughing." 

"I  admire  your  courage,"  said  Charnowski. 
229 


His  Daughter 

"It  is  your  finest  quality.  But  I  had  hoped  that 
with  the  baby  to  think  about  you  would  soon  for- 
get. Tell  me,  does  the  wound  still  smart  as  cru- 
elly as  it  did  at  first?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Claire,  "but  I  have  not  so 
much  time  to  think  of  what  I  have  lost." 

"You  should  try  to  forget." 

"I  don't  want  to  forget.  Why  should  I  pre- 
tend that  I  have  not  lived  and  been  happy  ?  It 
would  be  a  folly  and  a  pose.  And  besides,  I  think 
he  will  come  back.  When  he  knows  about  the 
little  girl  he  will  come  back." 

"When  he  knows,  perhaps — yes !  But  these 
Americans !  How  do  they  ever  find  out  any- 
thing ?  Do  you  know  that  if  our  beautiful  coun- 
try were  picked  up  and  dropped  on  the  United 
States  it  would  resemble  only  a  very  small  stamp 
on  a  very  large  envelope  ?  And  if  the  years  pass, 
and  he  does  not  come  back  ?  How  will  you  es- 
tablish yourself?  I  speak  not  for  the  purpose  of 
hurting  your  feelings  but  out  of  friendship.  It  is 
your  worst  fault  that  you  do  not  try  to  look  far 
into  the  future.  You  do  not  always  expect  to  be 
a  dame  du  comptoir,  I  suppose  ?" 

Claire  D'Avril  shook  her  head.  "I  dream," 
she  said,  smiling,  "that  I  shall  save  enough  money 
to  establish  myself  in  a  little  business.  In  the 

230 


His  Daughter 

meanwhile — thanks  to  you — I  have  a  position 
which  satisfies  me." 

Charnowski  gathered  up  the  change  which  she 
had  made  for  him,  and  slipped  it  into  his  trouser 
pocket. 

"You  do  not  come  any  more  to  inquire  if  there 
is  a  letter?" 

"I  do  not  expect  that  one  will  come  now,"  she 
said  simply. 

"But  the  studio,  where  you  were  so  happy; 
nothing  is  changed.  Aren't  you  ever  going  to 
pay  me  a  little  visit  and  drink  a  cup  of  tea  ?  I 
am  a  little  hurt  that  you  haven't  come  of  your 
own  accord.  It's  as  if  you  did  not  feel  sure  of 
me.  Will  you  come  some  day  and  bring  the 
baby  ?  Then  I  will  know  that  we  are  really  to 
be  friends." 

"I  will  come  to-morrow,"  said  Claire.  "Be- 
tween three  and  five,  when  I  am  not  needed 
here." 

"I  hope  you  will  come  at  three  and  stay  till 
five,"  said  Charnowski  gallantly. 

But  it  was  a  little  past  four  when  she  stepped 
once  more  into  the  familiar  room.  Her  heart  was 
beating  quickly.  It  was  not  an  easy  moment  for 
her. 

But  Charnowski,  by  behaving  as  if  she  were  in 
231 


His  Daughter 

the  habit  of  coming,  made  it  as  easy  as  he  could. 
He  behaved  with  perfect  naturalness. 

Over  the  statue  which  Dayton  had  made  of 
Claire  a  sheet  was  draped.  And  for  this  piece  of 
consideration  she  was  grateful.  But  neither  of 
them  made  any  reference  to  the  statue.  Presently 
Claire  D'Avril  began  to  scold  Charnowski. 

"You  have  been  idle,"  she  said.  "You  made 
me  believe  that  you  were  working  your  hands  off, 
and  yet  I  don't  see  as  much  as  a  sketch.  Where 
is  the  famous  picture  for  the  Salon  ?" 

Charnowski  indicated  the  fireplace. 

"It  made  a  fine  blaze,"  he  said.  "Indeed,  I 
have  burned  everything.  But  to-morrow  I  have 
a  new  model  coming,  and  I  shall  begin  again  from 
the  beginning."  He  pointed  to  a  fresh  canvas  in 
place  on  the  big  easel. 

"I  have  had  rotten  luck  with  models,"  he  went 
on.  "Only  those,  it  seems,  who  are  ugly  and 
badly  made  go  into  the  business.  But  I  am  try- 
ing a  new  one  to-morrow.  Her  face  is  not  bad. 
As  for  the  rest,  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see." 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  to  the  piano. 

"Fortunately,"  he  said,  "I  play  a  little.  And 
when  I  am  utterly  discouraged  I  play  and  I  for- 
get." 

And,  as  if  one  of  those  moments  of  depression 
232 


His  Daughter 

was  upon  him,  he  stepped  brusquely  to  the  piano, 
swept  the  sheets  of  music  with  which  it  was 
heaped  to  the  floor,  flung  open  the  top,  seated 
himself,  and  struck  a  chord  that  was  like  a  clap 
of  thunder.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  it  was  as 
if  a  storm  were  raging  in  the  studio. 

Even  Claire  D'Avril,  who  did  not  know  one 
note  from  another,  was  affected  by  the  power  and 
the  virtuosity  of  Charnowski's  playing.  There 
were  moments  when  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  twenty 
strong  hands  instead  of  only  two.  He  took  her 
breath  away.  But  it  was  not  the  beauty  of  the 
music  which  affected  her;  it  was  the  volume  and 
the  speed.  She  would  have  been  similarly  affected 
by  seeing  a  man  jump  from  the  top  of  a  high 
building. 

Charnowski  had  played  to  deaf  ears  and  he 
knew  it.  But,  as  he  turned  from  the  piano, 
Claire's  baby,  who  had  been  struggling  and  wrig- 
gling, suddenly  stretched  forth  both  its  tiny  hands 
and  crowed  with  delight. 

Almost  roughly  Charnowski  took  the  baby  from 
Claire  and  carried  her  to  the  window.  She 
crowed  again.  And  he  looked  into  her  mouth. 
Then  he  looked  at  her  ears.  They  were  thin 
and  delicate  and  very  flat  to  her  head.  He  car- 
ried her  to  the  piano,  and  holding  her  with  his 

233 


His  Daughter 

left  arm,  played  a  charming  little  accompaniment 
with  his  right  hand,  and  sang  very  softly  and 
sweetly  to  her.  Claire  could  not  understand  the 
words. 

While  he  was  singing  the  baby  kept  as  still  as 
a  mouse.  But  when  he  had  finished  she  wriggled 
strongly,  and  crowed  at  the  top  of  her  lungs. 
Again  he  played  and  sang,  and  again  the  baby 
listened,  and  again,  when  he  had  finished,  did  her 
best  to  applaud. 

"It  is  a  miracle,"  said  Charnowski  simply; 
"she  is  one  in  ten  million.  I  wish  to  God  she 
was  mine.  I  wonder  if  it  has  ever  happened  in 
the  world  before  ?  They  tell  extraordinary  tales 
of  Mozart  and  of  our  own  Chopin;  but  this  cab- 
bage three  times  has  crowed  on  the  same  key  in 
which  I  was  playing!" 

As  if  she  had  been  a  precious  vase  of  paper-thin 
porcelain  he  returned  the  baby  to  her  mother's 
arms. 

"The  father,"  he  said,  "must  have  had  more 
music  in  him  than  I  have  gathered  from  his  exer- 
cise-books. Be  very  careful  of  her,  Claire  D'A- 
vril.  It  may  be  that  some  day  she  will  be  famous 
from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other.  I  myself, 
when  she  is  a  little  older,  will  give  her  lessons. 
See,  she  wants  to  come  to  me." 

234 


His  Daughter 

"And  that  is  also  a  miracle,"  Claire  laughed, 
"because  it  is  her  dinner-time." 

Claire  colored  a  little. 

"Do  you  mind  ?"  she  said. 

"Of  course  not.  I  will  make  some  toast  for 
tea." 

He  went  into  the  little  kitchen  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

The  Countess  de  Segour  had  never  heard  of 
Arnold  Charnowski;  but  she  liked  Poles  as  a  rule 
and  sent  word  that  she  would  receive  him. 

Neither  the  countess's  luxurious  surroundings 
nor  the  fact  that  his  own  clothes  were  a  little 
shabby  troubled  Charnowski.  He  was  quite  at 
his  ease.  He  thanked  her  for  receiving  him,  and 
gave  his  excuse  for  having  ventured  to  call  upon 
her. 

"I  have  rented  the  studio  which  was  formerly 
your  brother's,"  he  said.  "He  seems  to  have  left 
behind  him  certain  belongings  of  a  purely  personal 
nature  and,  while  these  things  are  not  actually  in 
my  way,  I  feel  a  certain  responsibility  about 
them.  Briefly,  madam,  I  should  like  his  address." 

"I  will  give  you  that  very  willingly,"  said  the 
countess,  and  she  wrote  it  out  upon  a  slip  of 
paper.  "You  knew  my  brother  ?" 

235 


His  Daughter 

"I  have  not  that  pleasure.  And  yet  I  feel  as 
if  I  know  him.  He  modelled  a  little,  drew  a  little, 
painted  a  little,  played  a  little,  composed  a  little, 
and  left  Paris  suddenly,  owing  no  man  money. 
And  so  I  have  pictured  to  myself  an  honest,  hard- 
working young  man  who  will  perhaps  make  a 
name  for  himself.  You  have  good  reports  of  him, 
I  hope." 

"Excellent,"  said  the  countess. 

"We  may  look  for  his  return  one  of  these  days?" 

"I  think  he  will  settle  in  America.  He  has 
married  a  charming  girl,  and  I  suppose  for  the 
rest  of  his  life  will  think  more  about  his  income 
than  his  art." 

"Married?"  said  Charnowski,  and  there  came 
into  his  eyes  a  sudden  flash  of  elation.  This  did 
not  escape  Dayton's  sister. 

"She  was  little  more  than  a  child,"  she  said, 
"but  my  mother,  who  was  dying,  wished  it,  and 
the  marriage  was  made.  It  is  turning  out  very 
happily." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Charnowski. 
"But  he  will  find  that  marriage  is  not  good  for 
art." 

"You  believe  that?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Why?" 

236 


His  Daughter 

"Marriage,"  he  said,  "is  a  commercialism  of 
youth,  ardor,  and  ambitions.  The  difference  be- 
tween a  work  of  art  and  a  pot-boiler  may  be  no 
more  than  the  price  of  a  couple  of  seats  in  the 
gallery  or  a  new  blouse." 

"You  are  an  artist,  of  course  ?" 

"/  think  so,"  said  Charnowski,  "but  I  have 
never  been  heard  of." 

"You  paint?" 

"For  fun  only.  Unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken 
I  am  a  musician.  You  like  music  ?" 

"I  even  studied  for  years,"  said  the  countess, 
"but  there  was  something  lacking." 

"Always,"  said  Charnowski,  "there  is  something 
lacking.  The  painter  cannot  draw;  the  composer 
cannot  play;  the  well-beloved  loves  another;  there 
is  a  worm  in  the  peach.  One  is  at  peace  reading 
the  latest  scandal  in  yellow  covers,  and  one  is  in- 
terrupted by  an  importunate  role." 

He  rose,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said,  "for  your  graciousness 
to  me." 

"It  is  so  easy,"  said  the  countess,  "to  be  gra- 
cious to  charming  people." 

When  he  had  gone  she  wished  that  she  had 
asked  him  to  call  again.  She  was  always  drawn 
to  people  who  were  not  affected  by  their  surround- 

237 


His  Daughter 

ings.  And  in  addition  she  wanted  to  know  why 
Charnowski  had  received  the  news  of  her  brother's 
marriage  with  evidences  of  pleasure. 

Charnowski  carried  away  from  the  interview  a 
light  heart.  He  was  now  great  friends  with  Claire 
D'Avril,  and  he  believed  that,  upon  the  definite 
news  of  Dayton's  faithlessness,  this  friendship 
might  soon  ripen  into  something  else.  But  he 
put  off  telling  her  for  several  days.  He  was  afraid 
that  the  elation  which  he  felt  might  show  in  his 
face  and  spoil  everything.  He  actually  rehearsed 
what  he  should  say  to  her,  watching  his  expression 
in  the  looking-glass  over  the  bureau. 

One  day  he  dropped  into  the  Tete  D'Or  between 
hours,  and  hurried  at  once  to  her  tall  desk  in  the 
corner. 

"My  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "I  have  bad  news 
for  you.  If  I  haven't  proved  to  you  that  I  have 
your  interest  at  heart,  it  isn't  for  want  of  trying. 
When  I  learned  that  Frederick  Dayton  had  a  sis- 
ter living  in  Paris,  I  called  upon  her.  I  made  the 
excuse  that  he  had  left  behind  him  certain  personal 
belongings,  for  which  I  did  not  care  to  be  respon- 
sible. I  asked  boldly  for  his  address.  She  wrote 
it  for  me  on  a  piece  of  paper.  Here  it  is,  if  you 
wish  to  write  to  him." 

238 


His  Daughter 

Claire  D'Avril  was  trembling  all  over. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  Charnowski,  "you  will 
need  all  your  courage.  Fate  has  been  unkind  to 
you.  Frederick  Dayton  was  called  suddenly  back 
to  America  by  the  illness  of  his  mother.  Literally 
on  her  death-bed  she  forced  him  to  contract  a  mar- 
riage with  the  young  lady  she  had  picked  out  for 
him." 

Claire  D'Avril's  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she 
said  gently: 

"It  was  right  for  him  to  do  what  his  mother 
wished." 

"Yes,"  said  Charnowski,  "it  would  not  be  fair 
to  say  that  he  has  acted  badly.  But  now  that 
you  have  his  exact  address  you  will,  I  hope,  be 
businesslike.  You  should  tell  him  about  the  lit- 
tle daughter  and  hope  that  he  will  do  the  right 
thing." 

But  Claire  D'Avril  shook  her  head,  and  after 
one  despairing  look  at  the  piece  of  paper  with 
Dayton's  address  she  tore  it  into  small  pieces. 

"Perhaps  life  is  hard  for  him  too,"  she  said. 

From  this  time  Charnowski  noted  a  new  rest- 
lessness  in  Claire  D'Avril.  She  seemed  no  longer 
content  to  cast  up  accounts  for  old  Larrousse  and 
to  make  change  for  his  customers. 

239 


His  Daughter 

"It  will  get  me  nowhere,"  she  said.  "The  lit- 
tle daughter  has  no  one  to  look  to  but  me.  Some- 
how I  must  earn  more  money,  so  that  she  will 
never  want  for  anything." 

"But  you  are  saving  money." 

"Even  if  I  saved,  as  I  am  saving  now,  for  ten 
years,  I  should  have  very  little.  Life  is  hard  for 
a  woman." 

"It  will  be  no  easier  in  ten  years,"  said  Char- 
nowski,  "unless  in  the  meantime  you  strike  it 
rich." 

He  sighed  wearily,  and  added: 

"Life  is  hard  for  men  too.  Look  at  me.  I 
have  talent,  and  yet  if  it  were  not  for  the  rent  of 
a  little  house  in  Warsaw  I  should  starve.  I  have 
inexhaustible  energy  and  I  cannot  make  a  living. 
My  heart  is  tender,  but  I  do  not  inspire  affection." 

He  tossed  his  head  and  laughed. 

A  day  or  two  later  Claire  wheeled  her  baby  to 
the  studio  on  Charnowski's  invitation.  The  place 
smelt  of  burnt  paint  and  the  fireplace  contained 
a  wreck  of  canvas  and  framework  three  parts  con- 
sumed. 

"Your  new  picture?"  asked  Claire,  full  of  pity 
and  sympathy. 

"My  model  turned  out  a  fool,"  he  said.  "It 
was  a  pleasure  to  burn  even  the  image  I  had  made 

240 


His  Daughter 

of  her.  I  shall  not  waste  any  more  money  on 
experiments.  I  am  good  for  nothing  except  to 
amuse  children."  He  held  out  his  hands  for  the 
baby  and  she  crowed  with  delight.  He  carried 
her  to  the  piano  and  played  for  her  and  sang  to 
her. 

On  this  afternoon,  while  Claire  nursed  her  baby, 
Charnowski  did  not  go  out  of  the  room;  but  he 
turned  his  back  frankly  and  made  a  great  show 
of  bringing  order  among  the  massed  and  messed 
sheets  of  music  under  which  the  piano  was  half- 
buried.  But  the  mere  knowledge  that  in  the 
same  room  with  him  the  woman  he  desired  sat 
with  her  breast  bare  drove  the  blood  into  his  face 
and  made  his  hands  tremble. 

If  he  had  looked  directly  at  her,  Claire  would 
not  have  minded.  For  It  was  the  custom  of  her 
class  to  nurse  its  babies  in  public. 

"Well,  has  she  finished?" 

"And  getting  ready  for  her  nap." 

"Let  me  hold  her." 

The  baby  went  to  sleep  in  Charnowskfs  arms; 
but  for  some  time  he  continued  to  pace  the  studio 
slowly,  his  eyes  intent  upon  the  child's  face. 
After  a  time  he  made  a  nest  for  her  among  the 
sofa-cushions  and  laid  her  in  it. 

"Now  it's  our  turn,"  he  said,  and  he  pulled  his 
241 


His  Daughter 

tea-table  into  the  middle  of  the  room  and  lighted 
the  spirit-lamp. 

"It  is  nice  here,"  said  Claire  D'Avril.  "At 
first  it  hurt  me  terribly  to  come;  but  I  am  glad 
now  that  I  have  broken  the  ice." 

"It  is  fine  for  me,"  said  Charnowski.  "I  have 
few  friends.  I  look  forward  to  your  visits  and 
back  upon  them.  Also  I  love  the  little  daughter. 
But  I  think  you  should  give  her  a  name.  We 
could  have  a  christening — just  ourselves  and  the 
priest  and  two  or  three  friends.  I  shall  be 
godfather.  What  are  you  going  to  name  her  ? 
Remember  that  she  is  going  to  be  a  famous 
musician." 

"Then  she  mustn't  have  my  name,"  said  Claire. 
"You  yourself  have  said  that  I  don't  know  the 
difference  between  do  and  fa." 

"And  that  is  true,"  Charnowski  laughed  boy- 
ishly; "you  don't.  You  have  no  music  in  you 
at  all.  It  is  quite  a  distinction.  It  is  almost  as 
distinguished  and  rare  as  to  be  a  musician  of  the 
Very  first  water." 

"It  is  fortunate  that  you  have  pretty  ears." 

"Havel?" 

"Everything  about  you  is  pretty,  and  you 
know  it." 

He  turned  abruptly,  walked  to  the  window,  and 
242 


His  Daughter 

looked  out.  After  a  moment  he  returned,  with  a 
look  of  resolution. 

"Do  you  want  to  do  me  a  favor,  Claire  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"You  won't  misunderstand  me  ?  If  it's  a  favor 
that  you  can't  grant,  just  say  no  and  forget  that 
it  was  asked.  Will  you  pose  for  me  ?" 

She  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"I've  tried  a  dozen  models,"  he  went  on  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone.  "And  you  know  the  results. 
It  amounts  to  this :  I  have  wasted  months  of  time 
and  oceans  of  energy,  and  have  nothing  to  show. 
It  is  vital  that  I  paint  a  successful  picture.  With 
you  for  a  model  I  should  not  fail.  It  is  only  one 
friend  asking  help  of  another." 

Not  once  but  many  times,  out  of  gratitude  for 
the  way  in  which  he  had  stood  by  her,  Claire  had 
said  to  Charnowski:  "If  there  is  ever  any  way  in 
which  I  can  help  you,  you  will  tell  me." 

Now  he  had  told  her  in  what  way  she  could 
help  him;  and,  because  it  was  a  way  the  idea  of 
which  was  disagreeable  to  her,  it  looked  as  if  pro- 
fessions of  friendship  and  of  service  were  going  to 
fail  at  the  first  test.  Her  face  and  neck  turned  a 
dull  red. 

Charnowski  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
243 


His  Daughter 

"We  will  say  no  more  about  it,"  he  said  a  little 
stiffly.  "But  it  is  hard  for  an  artist  to  see  things 
from  the  point  of  view  of  a  person  who  is  not  an 
artist:  to  me  a  beautiful  body  is  merely  a  thing 
of  beauty;  to  you  it  is  a  brazen  piece  of  immod- 
esty." 

For  the  second  time  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
but  ever  so  slightly. 

"It  isn't  that  I  don't  want  to  help  you,"  said 
Claire;  "you  know  that.  But — why,  it's  almost 
as  if  you  asked  me  for  something  that  I  haven't 
got."' 

"You  wouldn't  mind  as  much  as  you  think," 
said  Charnowski.  "There  would  be  the  first  lit- 
tle shock,  like  getting  into  cold  water — but  we 
will  say  no  more  about  it." 

Claire  nodded  toward  the  statue  of  herself, 
swathed  in  the  dusty  sheet. 

"Couldn't  you  paint  from  that  ?"  she  asked. 

"Is  your  body  the  color  of  dry  clay  ?"  he  asked, 
"or  is  it  some  other  color?  But  I  understand 
your  point  of  view.  I  myself  am  as  modest  as 
the  next  man.  I  should  not  be  capable  of  taking 
off  my  clothes  and  going  for  a  stroll  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens.  Even  if  a  friend  asked  me  to 
pose  for  him  as  an  act  of  friendship,  the  idea 
would  embarrass  me.  But  surely  if  it  was  a  ques- 

244 


His  Daughter 

tion  of  his  career,  or  if  he  thought  it  was,  I  should 
swallow  my  embarrassment — and  pose." 

No  more  was  said  about  the  matter  at  that 
time.  Charnowski  even  seemed  to  have  dismissed 
it  entirely  from  his  mind.  But  Claire  thought  of 
it  often,  and  it  troubled  her.  For  she  felt  that 
through  her  squeamishness  she  was  failing  a  tried 
friend  in  friendship. 

Claire  had  a  friend  who  was  a  model.  One  day 
she  met  her  in  the  street,  and  after  greetings 

"Tell  me,"  said  Claire,  "you  who  pose  for  art- 
ists, was  it  very  terrible  the  first  time  ?" 

Puriette  La  Soule  laughed. 

"I  was  sixteen,"  she  said.  "My  mother  went 
with  me.  I  was  to  pose  for  Papa  Gouriot,  who 
was  a  million  years  old.  But  I  was  frightened  to 
death,  and  while  I  screamed  and  kicked  they  un- 
dressed me  by  force.  Even  then  I  would  not  pose. 
Papa  Gouriot  cleared  everything  out  of  the  studio 
behind  which  I  could  hide  or  with  which  I  could 
cover  myself.  Then  he  sat  down  before  his  can- 
vas with  an  air  of  patience  and  waited.  My 
mother  was  for  action,  but  after  a  time  he  made 
her  go  into  an  adjoining  room  and  locked  the  door. 
He  had  done  the  same  by  the  street  door,  and  he 
had  both  the  keys  in  his  pocket.  As  for  me,  I 

245 


His  Daughter 

had  tried  to  blot  myself  out  in  the  darkest  corner 
of  the  room.     Then  he  began  to  talk  very  gently: 

"'The  good  Lord  made  you,  my  poor  little 
Puriette,'  he  said,  'with  infinite  pains.' 

"And  then  he  told  me  a  million  things  about 
my  bones  and  lungs  and  my  heart  and  my  joints 
that  I  had  never  dreamed  before. 

"'And  all  this,'  he  said,  'the  Lord  God  covered 
with  the  most  wonderful  and  beautiful  of  all  fab- 
rics. But  you,  sitting  in  judgment  on  the  Lord's 
work,  have  said:  "Only  my  face  and  hands  are 
fit  to  be  seen.  There  is  something  shameful  about 
the  rest  of  me,  something  indecent."  Is  it  not 
so  ?'  But  I  only  glared  at  him. 

"It  is  of  course  true,'  he  said,  'that  your  back 
has  a  few  blemishes ' 

"I  twisted  my  head  and  tried  to  see  my  back; 
but  he  chuckled,  and  I  knew  that  he  had  been 
dangling  a  bait  and  that  I  had  jumped  for  it.  I 
couldn't  help  laughing. 

*  Stand  over  in  that  ray  of  sunlight,'  he  said, 
'and  look  at  me  over  your  shoulder.' 

"I  did  not  move  or  answer. 

"'Very  well,  then,'  he  said,  'stay  as  you  are/ 
And  he  began  to  draw. 

"Then  of  course  I  moved,  and  I  said:  'I  hate 
you;  you  are  an  old  beast.  I  want  to  go  away.' 

246 


His  Daughter 

And  I  began  to  howl.  When  I  had  finished  howl- 
ing he  let  my  mother  out  of  the  room  in  which 
she  was  locked,  and  they  went  round  the  corner 
to  have  lunch,  leaving  me  naked  and  hungry  and 
locked  in. 

"'I  will  throw  myself  out  of  the  window/  I 
shouted  after  them,  but  I  did  no  such  thing.  The 
studio  was  up  three  flights.  They  did  not  come 
back  till  late — late.  It  was  no  longer  nice  and 
warm.  And  I  was  weak  with  rage  and  hunger. 
I  was  like  a  little  wild  animal  that  had  been 
brought  into  the  woods,  and  I  was  beginning  to 
wish  that  I  was  tame. 

"Papa  Gouriot  went  at  once  to  his  easel. 

"'Stand  over  there,'  he  said,  'and  look  at  me 
over  your  shoulder.' 

"To  my  own  surprise,  but  very  sullenly,  I  did 
as  he  told  me.  And  as  I  stood  my  eyes  filled  with 
tears  and  I  emitted  a  frightful  sneeze. 

"Papa  Gouriot  put  back  his  head  and  roared 
with  laughter.  Then  he  bustled  about  and  made 
my  mother  get  my  clothes,  and  he  himself  pre- 
tended to  be  a  femme  de  chambre  and  was  so  funny 
that  I  had  to  laugh.  But  adroit !  My  dear,  what 
he  didn't  know  about  a  girl's  clothes  wasn't  worth 
knowing.  He  painted  me  for  the  Salon;  I  got  so 
that  I  didn't  mind  him  any  more  than  I  minded 

247 


His  Daughter 

myself.  And  now  ?  Well,  the  other  day  I  started 
for  the  street  just  as  I  was !  It's  gotten  so  that  I 
have  to  think  hard  to  remember  whether  I  am 
dressed  or  undressed.  One  thinks  only  of  the 
fatigue  now — keeping  in  one  position  for  such 
long  times.  But  what  is  all  this  to  you  ?  Are  you 
thinking  of  turning  model  ?" 

"I  think  of  it  sometimes;  but  not  because  of  the 
money.  There  is  a  good  friend  who  wishes  very 
much  for  me  to  pose  for  him,  and  I  would  like  to 
out  of  friendship — only  I  am  ashamed  and  embar- 
rassed." 

Puriette  La  Soule  laughed. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  she  said. 
"And  there  is  nothing  to  be  embarrassed  about. 
Who  is  he?" 

"Arnold  Charnowski.  Have  you  ever  posed 
for  him?" 

"Never." 

"We  are  something  alike.  Maybe  you  would 
do  as  well.  I  will  speak  to  him  about  you." 

"That  isn't  necessary.     Give  me  his  address." 

Two  or  three  days  later  Charnowski  thanked 
Claire  for  sending  Puriette  to  him. 

"She  hasn't  the  legs  I  want,"  he  said,  "but  her 
head  and  shoulders  are  charming;  and  better,  she 
is  a  real  character — she  makes  me  laugh." 

248 


His  Daughter 

"It  is  ridiculous  to  suppose,"  said  Claire,  "that 
in  all  Paris  no  one  has  the  right  figure  for  you. 
except  me." 

She  laughed  loudly  and  nervously  and  grew  red 
in  the  face. 

"You'll  do  it?"  Charnowski  almost  snapped 
the  question  at  her,  so  great  was  his  eagerness. 

"If  I  don't,  you  will  say  that  I  have  spoiled 
your  career." 

"When?"  he  asked. 

"The  sooner  the  better.  I  don't  want  to  have 
to  think  about  it." 

"You  are  free  between  nine  and  eleven.  You 
will  come,  then,  to-morrow  ?  Oh,  what  a  load 
you  have  taken  off  my  heart !  You  are  a  true 
friend.  You  will  be  glad.  But  how  shall  I  thank 
you?" 

The  next  morning,  at  a  few  minutes  past  nine 
o'clock,  Claire  arrived  at  Charnowski's  studio- 
She  laughed  a  good  deal  with  unnatural  loudness^ 
and  made  a  pretense  of  swagger  and  bluster.  She 
was  suffering  badly  from  a  sort  of  stage  fright. 

She  disrobed  behind  the  screen;  when  she  was 
ready  she  burst  into  tears. 


249 


VII 

THERE  passed  a  period  of  years  during  which 
automobiles  became  things  of  beauty  and 
perfection;  during  which  man  caused  a  machine, 
heavier  than  the  air  which  it  displaced,  to  rise 
from  the  ground  and  fly;  a  period  during  which 
Frederick  Dayton  achieved  notable  success  in 
several  of  his  chosen  lines. 

Of  his  occasional  escapades  it  seemed  that  the 
whole  world  knew,  but  that  Dorothy  Dayton  did 
not.  She  presided  over  their  house  in  town  and 
their  house  in  the  country,  and  over  their  family 
goings  and  comings,  with  a  serenity  and  affection 
that  seemed  to  give  his  reputation  the  lie.  Doro- 
thy had  married  for  life — for  happiness  or  unhap- 
piness.  She  soon  learned  that  her  husband  did 
not  love  her  as  a  husband  should.  She  soon 
learned  that  other  women  came  into  his  life  and 
went  out.  And  she  had  hours  and  whole  nights 
even  when  she  wished  she  were  dead.  But  she 
was  game  to  the  core.  And  she  would  not  for 
the  world  have  let  her  father  and  mother  know 
that  she  was  unhappy.  She  loved  her  husband 
long  after  the  respect  which  she  had  had  for  him 

250 


His  Daughter 

was  dead  in  her  heart.  It  was  curious,  that — 
she  loved  him,  she  admired  him,  she  forgave  him, 
she  took  him  back,  she  did  not  blame  other 
women  for  loving  him  (she  wondered  how  any- 
body could  help  loving  him),  she  rejoiced  in  his 
accomplishments,  his  successes,  his  growing  celeb- 
rity, she  thought  that  the  love  which  he  had  for 
their  daughter  was  the  most  beautiful  love  that 
she  had  ever  seen — but  she  did  not  respect  him. 

She  had  given  everything  that  she  had  to  give 
— and — well,  she  clung  to  the  idea  that  during 
the  first  year  of  her  married  life  she  had  received 
as  much  as  she  gave.  She  would  think: 

"I  can't  say  that  I  haven't  had  absolute  bliss 
in  my  life.  I  have  had.  And  of  course  it  couldn't 
last  forever.  It  never  does.  It  only  lasted  a 
little  while;  but  I've  had  it,  and  that's  all  any- 
body has  a  right  to  expect.  And,  whatever  hap- 
pens now,  I'll  remember,  I'll  remember  hard,  and 
then  I  won't  whine." 

She  had  Dayton's  respect,  gratitude,  and  ad- 
miration. He  thought  her  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  world.  He  took  a  tremendous  and 
creative  interest  in  her  costumes;  he  did  some 
charming  busts  of  her;  and  he  reproached  himself 
bitterly  at  times  for  ever  having  loved  any  one 
else.  His  first  act  of  unfaith  tormented  him  for 

251 


His  Daughter 

a  long  time.  He  had  tried  hard  to  be  a  model 
husband  and,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  "to 
keep  his  eyes  in  the  boat."  But  his  temperament 
was  too  much  for  him.  More  and  more  remorse 
lost  its  power  to  bite.  Romance  played  less  and 
less  often  the  leading  part  in  his  intrigues;  more 
and  more  models  and  chorus  girls  became  the 
important  part  of  his  life.  With  one  excep- 
tion. 

There  was  in  Dayton's  nature  one  streak  as 
pure  as  crystal  and  as  strong  as  steel.  He  loved 
his  daughter  with  a  strength  and  beauty  which 
transcended  his  own  understanding.  This  love 
was  almost  her  twin.  Its  birth  coincided  with 
her  own;  and  long  before  she  could  speak  a  word 
she  had  showed  with  all  her  energy  that  she  re- 
turned it  in  kind.  She  loved  everybody  who  was 
connected  with  her — her  mother,  her  nurse,  her 
grandparents — but  that  was  a  mere  bountiful 
overflow  from  that  great  reservoir  of  adoration 
which  she  had  for  her  father. 

"Oh,"  Dorothy  used  often  to  think,  "if  he 
could  only  have  loved  me  as  truly  as  that!" 
And  it  was  a  very  wistful  smile  she  wore  some- 
times when  she  heard  them  romping  together  or 
saw  them  "vanishing  into  the  landscape"  upon 
some  exciting  adventure. 

252 


His  Daughter 

She  was  a  beautiful  child,  very  strong  and 
straight.  She  had  a  fine  round  head,  bright 
brown  hair  with  a  little  wave  in  it.  Her  eyes 
were  blue  and  steadfast.  She  was  afraid  of  noth- 
ing. She  had  a  strong  will,  tempered  by  good 
nature  and  generosity.  Among  her  parents* 
friends  she  very  early  won  a  reputation  for  char- 
acter and  .  ability.  What  she  said  she  would  do 
she  did.  Her  given  word  was  as  good  as  a  bond. 
She  never  lied. 

Dayton  admired  her  tremendously — her  looks, 
her  build,  her  character.  He  played  boys'  games 
with  her  by  the  hour.  With  a  baseball  she  was 
better  than  the  average  boy  of  her  own  age.  She 
could  throw  a  fly  nicely;  she  could  shoot  nicely 
with  a  twenty-two.  She  could  be  trusted  to  drive 
any  of  her  father's  cars.  When  he  came  out 
from  town  it  was  always  she  who  met  him  at  the 
station;  but  at  such  times  he  knew  better  than 
to  take  any  liberties  with  her.  She  was  then  a 
chauffeur.  She  touched  her  hat,  she  opened  the 
door;  she  put  the  rug  over  his  knee;  and  then  she 
drove  away  with  him,  proud  as  Punch. 

She  was  so  full  of  out-of-doors  that  they  had 
hard  work  teaching  her  to  read  and  write.  She 
tried,  but  the  things  of  out-of-doors  kept  getting 
between  the  thinking  parts  of  her  brain  and  pre- 
253 


His  Daughter 

vented  them  from  getting  together.  But  her 
mother  said: 

"  When  father's  away  you  can  write  letters  to 
him  and  tell  him  about  everything  here,  and  he 
will  write  back  and  tell  you  about  everything 
there;  and  perhaps  if  you  ask  him  to  bring  you 
something  sensible  he  will  do  it  when  he  comes 
home." 

After  that  the  scattered  little  brain  pulled  itself 
together  very  quickly,  and  she  learned  to  read 
and  write  in  no  time  at  all. 

Sometimes  when  he  was  away  Dayton  had 
frights  about  the  child.  They  were  entirely  of 
his  own  imagining.  But  they  filled  him  with  ex- 
cellent excuses  for  breaking  any  kind  of  an  en- 
gagement and  getting  home  as  quickly  as  possible. 

She  had  talent.  She  was  musical,  and  she 
learned  very  early  to  love  the  smell  of  clay  wet  for 
the  moulding,  of  oil,  paint,  turpentine,  and  such 
like.  From  the  first  she  was  able  to  punch,  knead, 
and  paddle  a  lump  of  clay  till  it  looked  like  some- 
thing. And  Dayton  did  not  for  one  moment 
doubt  that  she  was  the  most  beautiful,  talented, 
wise,  and  virtuous  child  that  had  ever  been  born 
into  the  world. 

The  thought  that  in  the  dim  future — and  not 
such  a  dim  future  at  that — she  could  love  some 

254 


His  Daughter 

man  (now  probably  a  total  stranger  to  her)  more 
than  her  own  father,  and  go  away  to  live  in  his 
house,  and  be  treated  very  likely  just  as  her 
mother  had  been,  gave  him  moments  of  real 
anguish. 

He  could  see  no  happiness  in  a  life  where  he 
had  ceased  to  be  her  chief  concern  and  interest. 
He  had  the  fear,  too,  that  as  she  grew  older  she 
would  in  the  very  nature  of  things  turn  more  and 
more  to  her  mother.  He  was  afraid  that  some 
day  she  would  find  out  that  he  had  not  been  good 
to  her  mother,  and  that  the  knowledge,  little  by 
little,  since  for  his  conduct  there  was  no  very  good 
excuse  that  could  be  offered,  would  embitter  her 
against  him.  She  wouldn't  be  rich  exactly;  but 
she  would  be  very  well  off.  There  are  men  in 
this  world  who  are  capable  of  securing  a  girl's 
affections  and  marrying  her  for  her  money.  He 
cursed  such  men  root  and  branch.  Meanwhile, 
if  only  it  weren't  for  soiling  memories  and  fore- 
bodings about  the  future,  how  happy  he  was! 
How  much  sheer  delight  there  was  in  having  such 
a  daughter ! 

Long  before  she  was  old  enough  to  understand 
such  things  he  believed  that  he  would  be  a  sedate 
and  steady  man  whose  conduct  should  no  longer 
give  grounds  for  reproach.  In  cool  moments  he 

255 


His  Daughter 

did  not  mince  terms,  but  called  himself  a  beast, 
a  satyr;  but  nothing  that  he  could  call  himself 
helped  for  very  often  or  very  long.  One  day  a 
young  man,  a  total  stranger  to  Dayton,  pushed 
open  the  door  of  his  studio  and  marched  in. 
Dayton  looked  up  with  a  kind  of  amazed  inquiry 
in  his  face. 

"Is  your  name  Dayton?" 

"Yes.     What  can  I  do  for  you?'* 

"Frederick  Dayton?" 

"Yes." 

"I  wanted  to  be  sure." 

The  young  man  pulled  a  small  automatic  pistol 
from  his  pocket  and  shot  Dayton  in  the  stomach; 
then  turned  upon  his  heel  and  marched  out. 

Dayton,  who  had  fallen  heavily  and  then 
fainted,  came  to  in  a  few  moments  and  struggled 
to  the  telephone.  Even  while  he  was  giving  his 
doctor's  number  he  was  puzzling  his  brain  to 
remember  who  that  young  man  could  be.  To  his 
best  belief  and  knowledge  he  had  never  set  eyes 
on  him  before.  Yet  not  for  one  moment  did  he 
have  to  search  for  a  possible  cause  for  the  shoot- 
ing. There  was  more  than  one  man  in  New  York 
who  had  a  good  excuse  for  shooting  him — he  was 
lying  on  the  floor  again,  just  under  the  telephone 
— he  could  not  remember  whether  the  doctor  had 

256 


His  Daughter 

answered  his  call  or  not.  ...  It  didn't  matter. 
.  .  .  He  guessed  he  was  a  goner,  doctor  or  no 
doctor.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he  broke  into  a  sweat  of 
anguish.  And  once  more,  with  the  nerve  and 
will  of  a  better  and  stronger  man,  he  dragged  him- 
self to  his  feet,  caught  up  the  receiver,  and  gave 
the  number  of  his  country  house. 

"That  you,  Spagget  ?  I  wish  to  speak  to  Miss 
Ellen — "  He  waited,  swaying  and  dizzy — he 
heard  her  voice. 

"That  you,  puss  ?  It's  father.  I  can't  get 
home  to-night.  I  may  have  to  go  away  for  a  few 
days.  Is  it  cool  down  there  ?  That's  good.  It's 
been  hot  as  blazes  in  town.  ...  Is  mother 
handy  ?  I'd  like  to  speak  to  her.  All  right,  my 
darling.  .  .  .  So-long!" 

He  swayed  and  swayed,  the  sweat  pouring  off 
him.  But  he  had  had  his  wish.  If  he  was  going 
to  die  he  had  at  least  managed  to  hear  once  more 
the  sound  of  her  dear  voice.  Then  it  was  Doro- 
thy speaking.  His  own  voice  was  now  a  ghastly 
shadow  of  itself. 

"I've  been  badly  hurt,"  he  said,  "but  don't  let 
Ellen  know.  I  am  at  the  studio.  You  had  bet- 
ter telephone  my  doctor  and  see  if  he  is  coming 
or  not.  I  tried  to  tell  him,  and  I  don't  know 
whether  I  sue — cee — ded  or  not.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry 

257 


His  Daughter 

Fve  been  such  a  rotten  bad  husband  to  you. 
.  .  .  Don't  let  Ellen  know  what  I'm  really  like 
— ev — er.  Please  don't,  Dorothy " 

He  could  do  no  more.  He  rasped  down  the 
wall,  into  a  position  half-standing  and  half- 
crouching,  and  then  fell  over  on  his  side. 

But  Frederick  Dayton  was  not  destined  to  die 
of  that  wound.  They  got  him  to  a  hospital,  op- 
erated at  once,  and  managed  to  save  him.  There 
were  many  rumors,  but  the  story  that  he  had 
been  suddenly  seized  with  acute  appendicitis  was 
generally  believed.  And  very  few  persons — and 
they  were  very  wise — connected  the  affair  in 
any  way  with  the  suicide  of  Frank  Tilman,  the 
rising  young  comedian.  It  had  taken  place  within 
the  hour  following  Dayton's  seizure,  and  in  a 
small  park  just  around  the  corner  from  Dayton's 
studio. 

During  his  convalescence  Dayton  came  across 
some  reference  to  Tilman's  suicide.  "So  that's 
who  it  was,"  he  thought.  The  woman  who  had 
caused  the  bullet  to  fly  had  not  made  a  strong 
impression  on  Dayton.  Still,  she  might  feel  it 
her  duty  to  graft  on  him.  He  was  tired  of  New 
York.  Winter  was  coming  on.  He  went  to  sleep 
thinking  of  Paris.  A  little  of  Paris  would  be 
good  for  them  all — especially  Ellen.  Now  was 

258 


His  Daughter 

the  time  to  make  her  French  golden.  He  himself 
would  be  refreshed  by  a  thousand  fresh  art  im- 
pulses. Furthermore,  he  would  be  good  now. 
He  had  had  his  lesson.  Though  it  killed  him 
he  would  go  no  more  a-roaming  by  the  light 
of  the  moon.  What  fun  he  and  Ellen  could 
have  in  Paris !  It  would  bring  them  closer  to 
each  other  than  ever.  She  was  beginning  to 
enjoy  "all  those  children"  down  in  the  country 
too  much.  He  was  frankly  jealous  of  all  those 
children. 

"There  are  too  many  people  in  New  York," 
he  thought,  "who  might  start  something.  In 
Paris- 
He  began  to  think  about  Claire  D'Avril.  He 
had  a  real  tenderness  for  her.  They  had  been 
each  other's  first.  They  had  ventured  hand  in 
hand,  two  timid  children,  into  the  dark.  "But, 
oh,  my  word,"  he  thought,  "how  much  water  has 
rolled  under  the  bridge  since  then  !  Fourteen  years 
— more  than  fourteen  years — and  only  think,  I 
wanted  to  marry  her !  And  if  I  had  there  never 
would  have  been  any  Ellen — no  Ellen  in  all  the 
world!"  He  pondered  that.  It  was  impossible 
to  picture  such  a  world !  By  no  stretch  of  the 
imagination  could  he  imagine  such  a  world  worth 
living  in.  In  the  morning  he  talked  matters  over 

259 


His  Daughter 

with  his  wife — very  frankly.     A  week  later  they 
sailed  for  Bordeaux. 

The  shock  of  his  recent  experience  had  greatly 
sobered  Dayton.  He  was  very  quiet,  very  gen- 
tle, very  tender  with  his  wife  and  daughter.  The 
smoking-room  had  no  charms  for  him.  He  made 
Dorothy  realize  that  she  was  absolutely  necessary 
to  his  well-being.  And  in  a  hundred  ways  he 
tried  to  make  up  to  her  for  the  past. 

She  was  happier  than  she  had  been  for  many 
years.  She  had  not  wished  to  go  to  Paris,  but 
she  was  very  glad  that  she  had  given  in.  The 
change  was  doing  them  all  good. 

And  Paris  was  so  wonderful.  She  had  forgot- 
ten how  wonderful.  It  is  the  city  where  nothing 
ever  changes.  Knights  in  armor  have  yielded  to 
the  landau,  the  landau  to  the  motor-car.  But 
Paris  does  not  change.  Always  for  her  friends 
she  has  the  same  sweet  and  cheerful  face  filled 
with  understanding  and  good  humor. 

"I  am  very  happy,"  thought  Dayton.  "I  have 
the  best  wife  in  the  world,  and  the  dearest  daugh- 
ter, and  Paris.'* 

The  first  month  of  their  stay  was  devoted  to 
sightseeing,  to  theatre  and  restaurant  life.  Then, 
having  rented  a  pleasant  and  spacious  apartment, 

260 


His  Daughter 

they  all,  as  Dayton  expressed  it,  "went  to 
school." 

A  governess  was  found  for  Ellen,  and  twice  a 
week — for  the  child  had  developed  a  surprising 
talent — she  had  a  piano  lesson  from  the  famous 
Charnowski.  He  was  very  particular  about  pu- 
pils, and  it  was  only  through  the  influence  of  the 
Countess  de  Sejour  that  he  consented  to  teach 
Ellen. 

To  Dayton  the  impulse  to  work  had  returned, 
and  when  he  learned  that  his  old  studio  was  un- 
tenanted  he  secured  the  key  from  the  baleful 
Madame  Sidon  and  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs  to 
have  a  look  at  the  place. 

Madame  Sidon  had  then  fled  at  the  sight  of 
him.  In  her  guilty  soul  she  imagined  that  he  had 
come  to  ask  about  his  letters  to  Claire  D'Avril. 
But  this  was  not  in  his  mind.  Madame  Sidon  had 
always  shown  the  handsome  American  her  best 
sides.  He  remembered  her  with  pleasure. 

"Monsieur  Sidon?" 

He  was  dead.  Dayton  expressed  his  sorrow. 
He  had  liked  the  old  man. 

"Since  my  time,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  that  many 
have  occupied  the  studio." 

"For  a  number  of  years  Monsieur  Charnowski 
lived  in  your  rooms.  But  he  had  luck.  He  be- 

261 


His  Daughter 

came  rich  and  famous.  He  moved  into  a  fine 
apartment  across  the  river.  After  him  two  young 
Englishmen  moved  in.  But  when  their  money 
was  all  spent  and  they  had  not  learned  to  paint 
they  went  away.  Since  then  the  studio  has  been 
unoccupied." 

"  Perhaps  I  myself  will  be  the  next  tenant/' 
said  Dayton.  He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then, 
smiling,  but  a  little  ill  at  ease 

"What  has  become  of  Claire  D'Avril  ? "  he 
asked.  "I  had  to  go  away  without  saying  good- 
by.  I  wrote  many  letters,  but  she  never  answered 
them." 

"If  you  want  to  know  what  has  become  of  her," 
said  Madame  Sidon,  "you  will  have  to  make  in- 
quiries of  the  police.  And  very  likely  they  will 
not  be  able  to  tell  you.  After  you  had  gone  away 
she  disappeared  for  a  while.  Then  she  used  to 
drop  in  once  in  a  while  to  pose  for  Monsieur 
Charnowski." 

"But  he  is  a  musician." 

Madame  Sidon  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"He  would  draw  and  paint  a  little,"  she  said 
"when  it  suited  him." 

Dayton  could  find  nothing  to  say. 

"After  a  while,"  said  Madame  Sidon,  "she 
moved  in  bag  and  baggage.  Then  one  fine  day 

262 


His  Daughter 

she  disappeared.  I  do  not  know  what  has  become 
of  her.  Monsieur  Charnowski  behaved  like  a 
madman;  to  find  her  he  spent  money  like  water; 
it  was  all  in  vain.  Then  success  came  to  him, 
and  now  he  makes  love  to  countesses  and  prin- 
cesses. He  has  forgotten  her." 

It  was  then  that  Dayton  ran  up-stairs  and  let 
himself  into  the  studio.  There  was  little  furni- 
ture left  but  much  dust.  And  yet  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  he  had  only  been  out  for  a  walk;  the 
years  fell  from  him,  and  a  lump  rose  in  his  throat. 
He  had  been  very  happy  in  that  place.  He  felt 
a  little  like  Robin  Hood  returned  to  Sherwood 
Forest.  By  pressing  your  face  close  to  the  bed- 
room window,  and  flattening  yourself  generally, 
you  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  one  of  the  bridges 
over  the  Seine. 

"  It  seems  like  yesterday,"  he  thought,  "and  yet 
how  much  water  has  flowed  under  the  old  bridge !  '* 

Every  now  and  then  he  drew  a  long  breath 
that  resembled  a  sigh.  He  wondered  why  it  was 
that  he  had  one  judgment  for  himself  and  a  judg- 
ment altogether  different  for  other  people.  He 
was  sorry  that  Claire  had  come  back  to  the  studio 
to  keep  house  for  another  man.  He  ought  to 
have  been  glad.  At  least  it  proved  that  her  heart 
had  not  been  broken.  But  he  was  not  glad. 

263 


His  Daughter 

He  fell  to  remembering  with  the  utmost  vivid- 
ness details  of  their  first  meetings  and  of  their 
subsequent  life  together.  How  sweet  and  gentle 
she  had  been — how  loving  and  how  forgiving ! 
What  jolly  sprees  they  had  had  !  He  remembered 
days  in  the  fields  and  under  cool  green  trees,  the 
little  dinners  at  Gibier's;  the  sweet,  cool  cheek 
that  she  would  lay  against  his  when  he  was  dis- 
couraged. 

Then  he  remembered  how  they  used  to  write 
messages  and  love-letters  to  each  other  and  hide 
them  under  the  loose  tile  in  the  hearth.  He  must 
have  a  look  at  that  tile  for  old  sake's  sake.  He 
felt  for  it  with  his  foot;  but  the  drifting  dust  of 
many  years  had  enfirmed  it  so  that  it  no  longer 
rattled  to  the  touch.  He  pried  it  out  with  the 
nail-file  in  his  knife. 

He  blinked  hard  for  a  moment,  for  there  was  a 
letter  under  the  tile. 

He  carried  it  to  the  light,  his  hand  trembling. 
It  was  yellow  and  stained  with  damp.  The  writ- 
ing was  faded.  The  thick  wad  of  money  that  he 
had  placed  in  it  for  Claire  was  stained  and  yellow 
too. 

He  sat  down  weakly  on  the  edge  of  a  chair. 

"Sh£  came  back,"  he  thought,  "and  I  had  gone, 
and  she  never  looked  under  the  tile ! " 

264 


His  Daughter 

The  pathos  and  the  tragedy  of  that  were  very 
heavy  and  hard  to  bear.  There  was  worse  to  fol- 
low. For,  when  he  had  returned  the  key  to  Ma- 
dame Sidon  and  had  turned  to  go,  she  called  after 
him. 

"There  is  something  else,"  she  said,  "that  per- 
haps you  would  like  to  know.  Although  you 
haven't  asked." 

"What  is  that,  madame?" 

"Claire  D'Avril  had  a  little  girl  born  to  her." 

"When  was  that,  madame?" 

"Six  or  seven  months  after  you  went  away." 

It  was  not  for  some  seconds  that  the  amazement 
in  his  eyes  yielded  to  horror. 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago,"  said  the  old 
woman,  "but  I  supposed  that  you  had  your  sus- 
picions." 

He  shook  his  head  numbly. 

"And  it  may  not  have  been  yours." 

If  Madame  Sidon  had  spoken  the  truth  about 
the  date  of  the  child's  birth  there  was  no  possible 
doubt  as  to  the  identity  of  the  father.  Dayton 
felt  as  if  a  great  weight  was  crushing  him  down. 

"I  do  not  know  what  to  say  or  do,"  he  said. 
"What  you  have  told  me  is  horrible — horrible! 
What  a  brute  she  must  have  thought  me — what 
a  brute!  See!"  he  cried,  and  he  pulled  the  fa- 

265 


His  Daughter 

mous  letter  from  his  pocket  and  shook  it  in  Ma- 
dame Sidon's  face.  "The  letter  of  explanation 
that  I  left  for  her,  with  my  address,  and  money 
to  take  care  of  her  until  I  could  send  her  more ! 
She  never  got  it.  She  never  looked  under  the 
loose  tile  in  the  hearth  which  we  called  our  let- 
ter-box. She  thought  herself  abandoned — aban- 
doned!" 

He  paled  upon  the  word,  and  after  a  wild  glare 
at  Madame  Sidon  turned  and  rushed  out  into  the 
street.  He  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  river 
with  long,  furious  strides.  The  light  was  failing 
and  the  cool  air  on  his  temples  helped  him  to  con- 
trol himself. 

In  the  middle  of  one  of  the  bridges  he  halted 
and  leaned  against  the  parapet.  His  heart  was 
beating  furiously.  And  he  felt  as  men  at  sea  feel 
when  they  begin  to  think  that  the  motion  is  going 
to  affect  them. 

In  his  mind  the  images  of  his  daughters  were 
all  mixed  up;  to  picture  that  other  daughter 
whom  he  had  never  seen  he  had  only  to  think  of 
his  Ellen — the  sheltered  and  protected  Ellen;  an 
Ellen  abandoned  by  her  father,  poor,  ill-nourished, 
abused,  and  whose  mother  perhaps  had  had  to 
walk  the  streets  for  a  living,  was  walking  them  at 
this  very  moment,  perhaps — no  longer  very  young 

266 


His  Daughter 

nor  beautiful.  .  .  .     All  that  was  tender  in  him 
and  kind  was  stricken  to  the  quick. 

He  looked  at  the  palms  of  his  hands  and  saw 
that  his  nails  had  made  them  bleed.  And  he 
wished  that  he  had  been  struck  dead  before  he 
had  done  any  harm  in  the  world. 

A  slender  girl  came  loitering  across  the  bridge. 
She  paused  when  she  came  near  Dayton. 

"Bon  soir,  mon  ami." 

He  looked  up  impatiently.  But  she  saw  more 
than  the  impatience  in  his  face,  and  she  made  a 
little  sound  of  pity,  and  with  the  swift  direction 
of  Frenchwomen 

"You  are  suffering  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am.    That  is  true." 

"We  all  have  to  suffer,"  said  the  girl,  and  she 
nodded  to  him  and  resumed  her  slow  sauntering, 
but  he  called  after  her  and  she  returned  to  him 
with  the  swift  obedience  and  hopefulness  of  her 
class. 

He  was  taking  from  his  pocket  an  envelope 
from  which  bulged  a  thick  wad  of  money. 

"I  shall  suffer  less,"  he  said,  "when  I  have 
given  this  to  some  one  who  needs  it  more  than  I 
do.  I  don't  know  how  much  there  is,  but  quite  a 
lot.  Perhaps  it  will  make  your  life  a  little  easier 
for  a  while." 

267 


His  Daughter 

"But  this  is  a  fortune,"  she  said. 

"It  is  yours." 

Her  small,  thin  hands  closed  tightly  on  the 
money.  He  was  drunk — of  course.  But  what  a 
cold,  curious  drunkenness ! 

"It  will  make  my  life  a  great  deal  easier,  mon- 
sieur," said  the  girl,  "if  that  is  any  pleasure  to 
you." 

"The  pleasure  of  your  saying  that  will  have 
helped  me  a  great  deal.  Good  night,  mademoi- 
selle." 

She  hesitated. 

"Monsieur — why  stay  here  looking  at  the 
river?  That  is  not  good." 

Dayton  laughed  harshly. 

"Don't  worry.  Life  isn't  so  easily  settled;  and, 
besides,  if  I  jumped  in  the  idea  of  death  would 
frighten  me,  so  that  I  would  swim  ashore.  I  am 
a  coward." 

He  said  this  so  fiercely  that  the  girl  shrank  back. 
He  turned  his  face  once  more  to  the  river.  And, 
except  that  he  remembered  having  done  some- 
thing that  had  relieved  the  tension  of  his  thoughts, 
she  faded  from  his  mind. 

She  stood  for  a  little,  watching  his  broad  back, 
then  shrugged  her  shoulders  ever  so  little,  turned, 
and  sauntered  on  over  the  bridge.  But  as  she 

268 


His  Daughter 

reached  the  other  side  her  pace  quickened  until 
it  became  a  run.  It  was  curious  how  the  posses- 
sion of  much  money  could  so  lighten  the  spirit 
that  one  felt  again  like  a  little  child. 

He  did  not  tell  Dorothy  that  night.  Indeed, 
he  managed  to  pull  himself  together  and  give  the 
ladies  of  his  family  an  entertaining  account  of 
how  he  had  spent  the  afternoon.  It  was  not 
until  Ellen  had  been  kissed  and  sent  to  bed  that 
he  allowed  his  wife  to  perceive  that  there  was 
something  on  his  mind. 

"Has  Ellen  a  music  lesson  to-morrow?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes.     Tuesdays  and  Fridays." 

"I'd  rather  she  didn't  take  from  him  any  more. 
Anyway  till  I've  had  a  talk  with  him." 

"Have  you  heard  something  about  him  that 
you  don't  like  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Am  I  not  to  be  told?" 

"To-morrow,  dear,"  said  Dayton.  "After  I've 
talked  with  him  I'll  tell  you  all  about  every- 
thing." 

He  rose  and,  with  one  of  those  sudden,  affection- 
ate impulses  which  had  helped  Dorothy  to  forgive 
him  for  many  injuries  to  her  heart  and  pride, 

269 


His  Daughter 

seated  himself  on  the  floor  at  her  feet  and  rested 
his  cheek  against  her  knee. 

With  a  certain  hesitance  and  timidity  she  laid 
one  hand  on  his  thick  hair  and  patted  gently  with 
the  tips  of  her  fingers.  They  did  not  speak.  She 
was  as  happy  as  she  could  be.  And  that  is  to  say 
that  she  was  happy  within  reason  and  with  reser- 
vations. 

After  quite  a  long  time  Dayton  took  the  hand 
that  rested  on  his  head  in  his  and  kissed  it — very 
reverently,  as  if  it  had  been  the  hand  of  a  saint. 

"Is  it  possible,  dear,"  he  asked,  "to  begin  life 
all  over  again  ?" 

"It's  always  possible  to  try." 

"I'm  going  to  try." 

The  next  morning  Ellen  was  not  feeling  well. 
She  had  a  slight  headache  and  her  temperature 
was  a  little  above  normal. 

"Somehow  I  don't  feel  a  bit  worried  about  her," 
Dayton  said,  "but  by  all  means  have  the  doctor. 
I'll  call  on  Charnowski  at  the  time  when  Ellen 
was  to  have  had  her  lesson.  Then  I'll  be  sure  to 
find  him." 

Charnowski  received  Dayton  with  dignity  and 
politeness.  He  regretted  that  Miss  Ellen  was  in- 
disposed. She  had  talent.  It  was  curious  how 

270 


His  Daughter 

Paris  brought  out  the  talent  if  only  people  had  it 
in  them. 

"We've  never  met,  I  think,"  said  Dayton. 

"And  yet  we  are  not  strangers.  Madame  your 
sister — eh,  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  cleverness  and 
generosity  I  should  never  have  got  my  start.  I 
have  for  her  almost  more  gratitude  than  my  heart 
can  contain." 

Dayton  bowed;  then,  looking  Charnowski 
straight  in  the  eyes 

"Monsieur  Charnowski,"  he  said,  "please  tell 
me  anything  that  you  can  about  Claire  D'Avril." 

Charnowski  considered,  chin  in  hand. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said  presently,  "I  was  once 
passionately  jealous  of  you." 

"You  knew  about  me?" 

"One  had  only  to  love  that  estimable  girl,"  said 
Charnowski,  "to  realize  that  she  had  given  her 
love  to  another — and  for  all  time.  It  was  very 
humiliating.  She  left  me.  She  left  for  me  a  sad 
little  note.  And  that  was  the  end.  I  was  frantic. 
I  tried  to  trace  her.  But  she  had  vanished  like  a 
soap-bubble.  She  left  because — I  will  be  very 
frank  with  you — the  luck  was  not  good.  One 
night  I  was  such  a  fool  as  to  complain  about  ex- 
penses. I  went  out  to  keep  a  business  appoint- 
ment. I  returned.  She  had  gone.  It  was  a 

271 


His  Daughter 

great  pity.  A  great  pity.  For  almost  immedi- 
ately the  luck  changed,  and  if  she  had  stayed  with 
me  I  could  and  would  have  given  them  every- 
thing." 

"Them?"  said  Dayton  in  a  numb  voice. 

Charnowski  murmured:  "I  thought  you  knew." 

"Until  yesterday,"  said  Dayton,  "I  did  not 
suspect."  He  straightened  himself  and  looked 
very  brave  and  handsome. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you  would  tell 
me  a  little  what  my  daughter  was  like." 

"She  was  like  her  father,  monsieur.  She  was 
like  Miss  Ellen — more  fragile — but  very  like.  She 
had  also  her  talent  for  music;  but  hers,  if  I  do  not 
mistake  the  signs,  was  a  prodigious  talent.  Only 
think — before  she  could  even  talk  she  would  sit  in 
my  arms  while  I  played  for  her,  and  then  she 
would  crow  her  pleasure  and  always  she  crowed 
on  the  right  key!" 

A  lump  was  thickening  in  Dayton's  throat. 
"How  shall  I  find  them?"  he  said  simply.  But 
there  was  a  tragedy  of  appeal  in  his  voice. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Charnowski.  "Such 
women  as  Claire — so  affectionate,  so  gentle,  so 
trusting,  so  unselfish — when  they  vanish  it  is  like 
soap-bubbles.  You  know  what  life  is  like,  how- 
ever, as  well  as  I  do." 

272 


His  Daughter 

"It  is  an  unbearable  situation!" 

"I  too  grieve  over  them  sometimes,"  said  Char- 
nowski.  "I  have  only  one  comfort:  it  was  Claire 
who  abandoned  me." 

"I  do  not  know  why  I  should  care  in  what  light 
I  appear,"  said  Dayton,  "and  yet  in  every  man 
the  impulse  for  self-justification  is  strong.  This 
letter — it  was  filled  with  money — I  found  it  yes- 
terday under  the  tile  in  the  hearth  in  the  old 
studio.  She  never  thought  to  look  for  it.  And 
she  thought  that  I  had  abandoned  her!" 

Charnowski  smiled  faintly  and  waved  the  letter 
aside. 

"Often,"  he  said,  "I  have  felt  with  my  foot 
that  one  of  the  tiles  was  loose,  but  I  never  thought 
to  look  under  it." 

Prosperity  had  removed  from  Charnowski's  face 
its  former  sinister  and  hawklike  character.  If  he 
was  not  a  gentleman,  he  was  a  pretty  good  imita- 
tion of  one.  Dayton  was  surprised  to  find  that 
he  rather  liked  him,  and  he  was  inclined  to  let 
Ellen  continue  her  lessons. 

"I  will  keep  my  eyes  and  ears  open,"  said  Char- 
nowski, "and,  of  course,  if  I  see  or  hear  anything 
I  shall  let  you  know.  Do  you  know  the  chief  of 
police  ?  I  will  give  you  a  card  to  him.  It  hap- 
pens that,  aside  from  being  a  very  clever  fellow, 

273 


His  Daughter 

he  is  an  excellent  musician.  He  finds  his  way  in 
here  sometimes  and  I  play  for  him." 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,"  said  Dayton.  "Is  it 
worth  while  for  my  daughter  to  keep  on  with  her 
music?" 

"Distinctly." 

Dayton  was  so  wrapped  up  in  his  own  thoughts 
that  his  feet  carried  him  a  block  past  his  own 
door.  It  had  seemed  easy  enough  to  tell  Doro- 
thy. It  no  longer  seemed  so.  Still,  after  he  had 
learned  that  Ellen  was  more  comfortable,  and 
sleeping,  he  told  her  the  whole  story  from  the  be- 
ginning. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  knowledge  of  her  Doro- 
thy looked  stern  and  defensive  and  spoke  without 
heart  or  justice. 

"It  will  be  better  if  it  turns  out  that  they  are 
both  dead,"  she  said.  "Do  you  want  them  both 
to  come  and  live  with  us,  or  only  the  child  ?" 

"Neither,"  said  Dayton  meekly.  "I  only 
thought  that  without  robbing  you  and  Ellen  I 
could  find  enough  money  to  make  them  comfort- 
able and  give  the  little  girl  a  chance.  When  he 
told  me  that  she  looked  like  Ellen " 

Dorothy  was  softening. 

"I'm  sorry  I  said  what  I  did." 
274 


His  Daughter 

"Any  other  woman  would  have  said  things 
long  ago,  and  chucked  me.  .  .  .  But,  Dorothy, 
I've  wronged  them  even  more  than  I've  wronged 
you.  And  I've  got  to  try  to  make  up  to  them, 
too.  Haven't  I?" 

Dorothy  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Yes,  of  course." 

Dayton  sent  for  a  taxi  and  drove  at  once  to  the 
prefecture  of  police.  And  when  he  had  been  re- 
ceived by  the  chief  he  stated  his  business  briefly. 

"I  remember  the  name  very  well,"  said  the 
chief.  "She  figured  in  an  inquest.  Her  lover 
was  killed  in  an  automobile  accident.  But  that 
is  many  years  ago.  I  will  look  into  the  matter. 
Will  you  call  again — let  us  say  a  week  from  to- 
day?" 

"That  is  very  good  of  you.  Is  there  anything 
that  I  can  do  to  help  ?" 

"Not  the  least  thing."  The  chief  laughed  to 
himself  when  Dayton  had  gone. 

"I  have  read  of  such  things  in  their  literature," 
he  thought.  "It  is  what  they  call  the  New  Eng- 
land conscience.  It  does  not  prevent  you  from 
doing  wrong  things,  but  years  afterward  it  assails 
you  and  makes  you  sorry  that  you  have  done 
them.  Claire  D'Avril.  The  thing  made  a  noise 
at  the  time.  The  lover  was  an  American,  rich 

275 


His  Daughter 

and  well  known.  She  was  left  unprovided  for 
...  so  much  I  can  remember  in  my  own  head." 

Dayton  returned  to  his  apartment  and  learned 
that  Ellen  was  worse.  Her  temperature  had  risen 
to  a  hundred  and  four.  And  the  doctor  was  afraid 
that  she  had  typhoid. 

Fear  pierced  Dayton  like  a  cold,  blunt  knife. 


276 


VIII 

WHEN  a  sufficient  degree  of  suffering  is 
reached  even  the  feeblest  demonstrations 
of  affection  become  impossible.  It  was  the  set- 
ting in  of  this  phenomenon  in  the  case  of  Ellen 
that  most  wrung  Dayton's  heart  and  filled  him 
with  fear.  She  who  had  been  the  most  responsive 
to  his  smile  and  to  his  voice  of  any  human  being 
had  no  longer  the  inclination  or  the  power  to 
respond. 

She  sank  very  rapidly.  For  forty-eight  hours 
she  had  never  a  gleam  of  recognition  for  either 
her  mother  or  her  father.  On  the  third  day  she 
lapsed  into  unconsciousness  and  died. 

The  blow  to  the  Daytons  was  without  any  ex- 
tenuating mercy  whatever.  They  were  not  even 
so  lucky  as  to  be  stunned  by  it.  What  they  had 
lost,  suffered,  and  were  suffering,  and  must  con- 
tinue to  suffer,  was  in  every  detail  perfectly  clear 
to  them. 

But  all  through  they  showed  their  breeding. 
Or  else  their  grief  was  too  great  to  be  demon- 
strated by  any  outward  manifestation.  They 
went  about  the  business  of  the  burial  clear-mind- 

277 


His  Daughter 

edly  and  with  method.  Dayton  even  secured  the 
great  Rodin  to  make  a  death-mask  of  the  little 
girl.  He  even  kept  his  appointment  with  the 
chief  of  police. 

It  was  necessary  to  do  these  things  or  to  go 
quite  mad. 

From  the  chief  of  police  he  was  able  to  learn 
only  that  Claire  D'Avril  had  changed  her  name 
and  was  no  longer  in  Paris.  The  police  of  the 
great  provincial  cities  were  working  on  the  case. 
The  child,  one  of  very  many  similarly  situated, 
had  presumably  been  boarded  with  a  peasant 
family  in  Lorraine.  The  chief  of  police  did  not 
despair  of  finding  her. 

"Well,"  thought  Dayton,  as  he  drove  back  to 
the  apartment,  "God  has  this  mercy — that  he 
gives  me  these  two  unfortunates  to  think  of,  to 
find,  and  to  provide  for.  And  Charnowski  says 
that  the  other  looks  like  Ellen." 

Before  his  eyes  there  arose  a  vision  of  Ellen's 
waxlike  face,  still  and  serene.  "Only  the  other 
day,"  he  thought,  "she  was  coming  to  me  as  if 
to  God;  but  now  she  has  penetrated  the  great 
secret  and  has  no  more  need  of  me." 

Some  of  the  time,  as  surely  as  he  believed  the 
facts  of  life,  he  believed  that  after  death  he  would 
be  reunited  to  his  daughter  in  unutterable  happi- 

278 


His  Daughter 

ness.  It  would  be  very  different  from  the  happi- 
ness that  had  been  theirs  on  earth.  There  would 
be  no  fear  of  sickness,  of  partings.  He  would 
have  no  dire  foreboding  that  some  day  she  must 
grow  up  and  love  some  one  more  than  she  loved 
him.  She  would  have  the  same  physical  appear- 
ance— only  the  flesh  thereof  would  be  immortal 
and  unchanging.  Heaven — he  believed  that,  hav- 
ing expiated  by  suffering,  one  went  to  heaven, 
and  that  there  the  memory  of  one's  sins  and  short- 
comings was  taken  away.  And  it  was  this  fact 
that  would  make  it  heaven. 

"Of  this  life  I  shall  remember  everything,"  he 
thought,  "from  the  time  she  was  born  until  the 
very  moment  before  she  got  sick.  Of  my  own 
life  I  shall  remember  only  what  was  honorable 
and  kind.  I  don't  know  how  we  shall  occupy 
our  time  up  there.  But  we  shall  be  together. 
And  Dorothy  will  be  with  us.  And  I  shall  have 
for  her  the  feeling  that  I  had  when  we  knew  that 
in  a  few  hours  Ellen  was  going  to  be  born." 

But  at  other  times  he  had  convictions  about 
death  that  were  very  different.  And  then  his 
deepest  soul  quivered  with  a  horror  and  grief 
that  were  without  comfort.  For  then  he  felt 
that  he  had  forever  parted  from  his  daughter. 
And  that  when  he,  too,  was  dead,  it  would  be 

279 


His  Daughter 

as  though  their  love  for  each  other  had  never 
existed. 

The  gray  hairs  in  his  head  increased  in  num- 
ber. Physically  and  mentally  he  had  aged  many 
years  in  a  few  days. 

The  Daytons  did  not  wish  to  leave  Ellen  always 
in  France.  So  she  was  placed  in  the  receiving- 
vault  in  the  cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise.  Not 
until  the  next  day  did  either  of  them  have  the 
faintest  notion  that  the  whole  of  Europe  was 
about  to  be  plunged  in  war. 

Dayton's  search  for  Claire  D'Avril  and  for  his 
other  daughter  ceased  automatically.  All  the 
powers  of  France  were  mobilizing  to  fight  for  the 
nation's  life.  It  never  occurred  to  the  Daytons 
to  fly  the  country.  The  possibilities  of  doing  war 
work  seemed  to  them  both  a  merciful  dispensa- 
tion. Dorothy  at  once  offered  her  services  to  the 
Red  Cross  and  became  a  nurse.  Dayton  for  a 
time  assisted  Ambassador  Herrick  in  sending  hys- 
terical Americans  out  of  France,  and  then,  after 
closing  the  apartment  from  which  Dorothy  had 
already  been  transferred  to  a  base  hospital,  he 
joined  an  ambulance  unit  as  a  stretcher-bearer, 
and  was  sent  almost  at  once  to  the  front. 

He  had  only  a  few  minutes  in  which  to  say 
good-by  to  his  wife.  She  looked  tired;  but  there 

280 


His  Daughter 

was  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  he  had  never  seen 
before.  She  smelled  of  chloroform  and  iodoform. 
He  had  the  taste  upon  his  lips  for  a  long  time 
after  kissing  her. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "it's  very  hard  work. 
And  a  good  many  of  us  are  going  to  break  down; 
but  I'm  not.  The  work  will  be  easier  when  my 
muscles  get  trained  to  the  heavy  parts  and  when 
I  get  a  little  stiffened  against  suffering." 

"I've  been  ordered  to  the  front,"  said  Dayton. 
"The  risks,  I  imagine,  will  be  very  slight;  but 
I've  put  the  house  in  pretty  good  order.  All  the 
important  papers  are  in  Morgan  Harjes's  safe." 

"You  won't  take  risks  that  you  don't  have 
to?" 

"You  bet  I  won't ! "  He  smiled  innocently, 
but  she  knew  that  he  was  lying. 

She  sighed  and  looked  him  for  a  long  time  in 
the  eyes. 

"Fred,"  she  said,  "I've  never  stopped  loving 
you.  You  know  that." 

"I  know." 

"I  want  you  to  come  back  to  me.  Only  the 
firm  belief  that  you  are  coming  back  to  me,  safe 
and  sound,  can  keep  me  going." 

"Oh,  I'll  turn  up,"  he  said,  "like  the  bad  penny 
that  I  am.  Be  sure  of  that !" 

281 


His  Daughter 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"I've  got  to  run,"  she  said.  "Good-by  and 
God  bless  you!" 

"And  God  bless  yow,"  came  with  the  kiss  that 
Dayton  gave  and  received.  And  he  was  trem- 
bling with  emotion,  for  he  did  not  believe  that 
they  would  ever  meet  again. 

In  his  present  state  of  mind  he  intended  to  get 
himself  killed,  if  recklessness  could  manage  it. 

But  of  men  who  go  down  to  battle  with  the 
avowed  intention  of  getting  themselves  killed 
there  are  very  few  who  zealously  embrace  the 
first  opportunity  which  offers  itself. 

Dayton  had  not  counted,  perhaps,  on  being 
thrown  with  men  who  were  almost  recklessly 
alive,  and  almost  idiotically  anxious  to  go  on  liv- 
ing. Their  high  spirits,  their  pranks,  their  pre- 
tended ecstasies  of  fear,  had  an  effect  on  him. 
Also  the  work  was  too  much,  the  days  too  short, 
and  the  nights  too  well  slept  to  afford  him  much 
opportunity  for  his  private  griefs.  And  the  fact 
that  he  was  rounding  very  quickly  into  splendid 
physical  condition  helped  to  heal  the  morbidity 
of  his  mind. 

In  those  first  days  of  the  war  the  ambulance 
corps  was  not  very  well  organized.  It  was,  in  ad- 
dition, short  of  everything — short  of  ambulances, 

282 


His  Daughter 

short  of  stretchers,  of  men,  and  of  medical  sup- 
plies. It  was  the  same  with  the  field-hospitals — 
with  everything,  indeed,  except  the  steel-true 
spirit  and  the  national  genius  for  fighting  with 
which  the  French  armies  went  to  war. 

Dayton  had  imagined  that  his  work  would  con- 
sist chiefly  in  locating  wounded  men  and  carrying 
them  to  the  ambulance  to  which  he  was  attached. 
This,  of  course,  after  the  battle  was  over,  and 
both  Christian  armies  had  called  a  sort  of  truce 
in  which  to  care  for  their  wounded  and  to  bury 
their  dead. 

He  had  longed  for  death.  He  now  found  that 
until  the  last  invader  was  dead,  mangled,  or  in  a 
strait-jacket,  he  had  no  wish  to  die. 

Stretcher-bearing  was  not  what  he  had  imag- 
ined. It  did  sometimes  and  very  simply  assist 
in  helping  to  carry  a  wounded  man  from  here  to 
there;  but  it  was  very  much  complicated  by  a 
hundred  and  one  complicated  and  nerve-racking 
things  that  had  to  be  learned  from  the  beginning. 

He  learned  to  inject  morphine  into  the  wounded; 
to  have  steady  hands  so  that,  when  shells  ex- 
ploded in  thunderous  proximity,  the  needle  should 
not  snap  short  off  in  the  puncture.  He  learned 
first  aid — to  locate  and  choke  by  pressure  the  sev- 
ered arteries  of  men  who  otherwise  must  bleed  to 

283 


His  Daughter 

death.  He  learned  to  know  the  signs  of  approach- 
ing dissolution,  and  to  take  and  record  the  last 
whispered  messages  of  the  dying. 

One  Macabre  night  he  worked  with  surgeons 
and  nurses  over  a  stream  of  wounded  that  was 
unending.  A  village  church  was  the  theatre. 
The  wax  candles  had  been  taken  from  before  the 
shrines  of  saints  to  throw  a  flickering  light  on  the 
roughly  improvised  operating-tables. 

Very  early  in  the  night  the  ether  gave  out  and 
the  chloroform.  There  was  no  morphine.  But, 
just  the  same,  abdominal  cavities  had  to  be  cut 
open;  legs  and  arms  taken  off;  deep  wounds  caused 
by  splinters  of  shells  had  to  be  ripped  and  slashed 
wide  open  with  scissors  to  give  infection  an  op- 
portunity to  drain  off.  Everything  that  is  usu- 
ally done  under  the  merciful  auspices  of  anaes- 
thetics had  to  be  done  without.  It  was  a  night 
of  horrible  screaming,  of  torment  that  could  not 
be  endured. 

Heavy  men  with  powerful  muscles,  trained 
athletes,  were  needed  to  keep  within  bounds  the 
awful  struggles  and  galvanic  jerkings  of  the 
wounded  when  their  turn  upon  the  table  had 
come. 

All  night  the  shock  and  concussion  of  the  con- 
tending cannon  and  the  explosion  of  enemy 

284 


His  Daughter 

shells  drew  closer  and  closer.  Sometimes,  so 
great  was  the  vibration,  the  bronze  bell,  high  up 
in  the  belfry,  could  be  heard  musically  mourn- 
ing. Toward  dawn  the  roof  of  the  church 
opened  with  one  terrible  crash  and  a  hellish  orgy 
of  white-hot  light.  One  surgeon,  three  nurses, 
and  one  slightly  wrunded  sergeant  were  killed 
instantly. 

A  flood  of  rain  poured  down  through  the  hole 
in  the  roof.  A  second  shell  struck  the  church, 
and  the  great  stained  window  over  the  high  altar 
came  down  in  tinkling  dust.  At  that  moment  a 
surgeon  was  making  some  stitches,  as  fine  and 
delicate  as  those  which  a  good  seamstress  puts 
into  a  skirt.  He  did  not  even  look  up.  He  fin- 
ished that  which  he  was  mending  and  put  it  back 
where  it  belonged.  One  of  the  nurses  for  that 
table  stepped  forward  with  a  roll  of  bandages. 

Another  shell  exploded  against  the  side  of  the 
building,  but  still  the  surgeons'  work  went  on, 
the  work  of  the  nurses,  and  the  travail  of  the 
hurt.  They  were  like  dogs :  they  howled  from  the 
pain,  but  between  spasms  they  sought  with  trust- 
ing and  loving  looks  for  the  faces  of  those  who, 
in  order  to  save  them,  tormented  them. 

The  hands  of  the  surgeons  were  cramped. 
Their  forearms  ached.  The  nurses  looked  like 

285 


His  Daughter 

butchers.  Dayton,  exerting  all  of  his  remaining 
strength  to  hold  an  amputation  case  in  position, 
resembled  one  of  those  straining  and  terrible  fig- 
ures which  Michelangelo  used  to  hew  from  a  block 
of  marble. 

Then  word  came  to  evacuate  the  church.  The 
spire  was  tottering.  The  roof  was  no  longer  safe. 
Many  of  the  wounded  could  not  be  moved.  A 
shell  exploded  in  the  choir  and  set  fire  to  the 
wooden  stalls.  A  bedding  of  straw,  damped  with 
blood,  caught  and  the  church  was  soon  filled  with 
a  blinding,  choking  smoke.  The  roar  of  the  fire 
could  be  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  guns. 

There  had  not  been  time  to  carry  all  the 
wounded  from  the  building.  It  was  impossible  to 
go  back  into  that  place  of  fire  and  smoke,  of  glass 
that  crashed  from  the  stained  windows  as  the 
leads  melted — into  the  hell  from  which  there  still 
issued  the  screams  and  bowlings  of  those  who 
had  been  condemned  in  the  flesh  through  no  fault 
of  their  own.  .  .  . 

Stretcher-bearing  was  by  no  means  the  simple, 
methodic  business  that  Dayton  had  anticipated. 

In  the  grief  and  anguish  of  thousands  he  came 
very  soon  to  forget  that  there  had  been  such  a 
person  as  Frederick  Dayton  and  that  the  said 
person  had  thought  himself  unhappy  and  ill  used 

286 


His  Daughter 

— had,  indeed,  gone  through  a  private  crucifixion 
of  his  own. 

There  were  too  many  mothers  and  sweethearts 
in  these  wrecked  French  villages  who,  having  lost 
all  that  was  dear  to  them,  still  faced  life  with  calm 
cheerfulness  and  the  passionate  desire  to  be  of 
service,  for  Dayton  to  dwell  upon  his  own  Ellen's 
passing  with  anything  but  serenity. 

It  was  impossible  that  so  many  thousands  of 
lovers  could  have  been  parted  forever.  And  he 
was  very  sure  that  after  service  and  sacrifice  and 
smoke  and  fire,  and  a  death  perhaps  of  anguish, 
he  would  one  day  be  with  his  darling  again. 

Then  followed  the  terrible  days  of  the  Marne, 
when  General  JofFre,  staking  all  that  makes  life 
worth  living  upon  his  will  to  conquer,  ordered 
those  of  his  men  who  could  to  advance,  and  those 
who  could  not  to  die  where  they  stood.  At  the 
end  of  those  days,  as  all  men  know,  the  invaders 
were  sent  staggering  back  in  defeat,  and  England 
was  given  time  and  opportunity  to  prepare  for 
war. 

A  strip  of  ravished  Lorraine  was  won  back  by 
the  French,  and  through  its  ruined  villages,  thick 
as  plums  in  a  rich  pudding,  Dayton,  as  opportunity 
offered  and  the  exigencies  of  the  service  permitted, 
sought  for  his  daughter. 

287 


His  Daughter 

He  had  little  to  go  on,  and  his  search  was 
without  luck.  Once,  in  the  village  of  Bois  Dor- 
mis,  he  was  very  close  to  her,  but  she  had  her 
back  turned  and  a  shawl  over  her  head,  and  the 
ambulance  was  not  making  any  halt,  so  that  he 
did  not,  at  that  time,  discover  her  identity.  And, 
indeed,  for  some  time  now  his  inquiries  had  been 
growing  more  and  more  perfunctory;  so  many  of 
the  young  people  had  left  the  villages  of  their 
own  accord,  so  many  had  been  carried  off  by  the 
Germans.  At  times  he  despaired  of  ever  finding 
his  daughter. 

The  more  he  learned  about  the  Germans,  the 
more  he  longed  to  hurt  them,  and  he  succeeded 
in  getting  himself  transferred  from  the  ambulance 
to  an  aviation  school  somewhere  in  the  south  of 
France. 

Six  months  later  he  was  back  in  Lorraine,  a 
member  of  a  small  escadrille,  a  pilot  of  promise. 

Through  his  own  sufferings  and  the  sufferings 
of  others  he  had  become  cold  as  ice,  cold  as  the 
eagles  who  soar  in  the  zenith  searching  with 
cruel  telescopic  eyes  for  carrion  in  the  world 
below. 

Once  free  from  the  earth  it  never  occurred  to 
Dayton  that  he  could  be  hurt.  It  was  the  golden 
opportunity  to  hurt  Germans  that  occupied  him. 

288 


His  Daughter 

You  could  hurt  them  in  many  ways.  You  could 
locate  a  battery  or  a  supply-train  and  direct  upon 
them  destructive  French  cannon-fire.  You  could, 
stealing  up  in  the  cover  of  a  cloud,  shut  off  the 
loud  crackling  motor  and  coast  down  suddenly 
and  at  frightful  speed  upon  a  company  of  soldiers, 
spray  them  with  a  stream  of  lead  from  your 
machine-gun,  turn  on  your  power,  and,  rising  and 
receding  more  swiftly  than  an  eagle,  disappear 
once  more  into  the  asylum  of  the  clouds. 

One  day  he  brought  down  a  German  fighting- 
plane,  and  was  thereafter  decorated  by  a  French 
general  and  kissed  upon  both  cheeks.  One  day 
his  machine  was  riddled  through  and  through  by 
shrapnel  bullets  and  the  motor  put  out  of  com- 
mission. He  himself  was  untouched,  and,  by 
cold,  clear  thinking,  regained  control  of  his  falling 
plane  and  made  a  safe  descent.  Two  hours  later, 
having  worked  over  the  crippled  motor  with  his 
two  mechanics  until  the  sweat  poured  from  them, 
he  was  flying  again. 

The  airmen  are  the  lords  of  the  French  villages. 
They  are  the  old  knights  come  to  life  again  to 
battle  for  France.  They  are  a  race  apart.  There 
is  none  to  say  them  nay.  It  was  one  thing  for  a 
stretcher-bearer  to  hunt  through  the  ruined  vil- 
lages for  a  lost  daughter.  It  was  quite  another 

289 


His  Daughter 

when  a  knight  of  the  air  said  that  one  was  lost 
whom  he  greatly  wished  should  be  found. 

One  of  Dayton's  mechanics,  Dumal,  was  from 
the  little  town  of  St.  Nicholas  du  Port.  He  was 
a  wise  and  observant  youth,  and  one  in  whom  his 
superiors  had  great  confidence. 

"My  friend,"  said  Dayton  to  him  one  day, 
"about  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  ago  a  young 
woman  brought  her  child  to  Lorraine  and  put  her 
to  board  with  a  family  in  one  of  the  little  villages. 
I  do  not  know  which  village  nor  the  name  of  the 
family,  nor  the  name  of  the  little  girl — she  was 
little  more  than  a  baby.  I  know  only  the  name 
of  the  mother;  and  I  could  supply  the  name  of 
the  father,  only  it  would  not  be  of  any  help." 

'*  You  wish  to  find  the  little  girl,  monsieur  ?" 

"Yes." 

Dumal  wore  a  discreet  expression. 

"The  name  of  the  mother,  monsieur?" 

"Claire  D'Avril." 

Dumal  wrote  the  name  on  a  loose  leaf  of  his 
note-book.  And  strictly  to  himself  he  observed: 
"Such  things  will  happen  even  in  the  best  fami- 
lies." Aloud  he  said: 

"Can  it  be  known  that  it  is  you,  monsieur, 
who  seek  ?" 

"That  would  not  help  in  any  way." 
290 


His  Daughter 

"On  the  contrary,  the  peasants  will  put  them- 
selves out  for  an  aviator  as  they  would  not  for 
any  ordinary  person." 

Dayton  knew  this  to  be  true. 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  said.  "Let  my  name 
appear  in  the  affair.  That  is  nothing,  if  the  child 
can  be  found.  What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?" 

"To  speak  of  what  monsieur  desires  to  a  few 
peasants.  Within  a  week  monsieur's  wishes  will 
be  known  to  every  peasant  in  Lorraine.  Electric- 
ity is  wonderful,  monsieur.  But  the  people  who 
live  close  to  the  ground  are  still  more  wonderful." 

Ten  days  later  Dumal  knocked  on  the  door  of 
Dayton's  room  in  the  coquettish  chateau  where 
the  escadrille  was  quartered.  Dayton  looked  up 
impatiently.  He  was  working  on  a  new  range- 
finder  for  airplanes.  When  he  saw  the  expression 
on  Dumal's  face  his  impatience  left  him.  Dumal 
might  have  stood  for  a  statue  of  mind  triumphing 
over  matter.  He  attempted  (and  failed)  to  speak 
in  a  matter-of-fact  voice. 

"She  lives  in  Bois  Dormis,"  he  said.  "She 
keeps  house  for  the  cure,  who  is  a  very  old  man. 
He  has  taught  her  Latin  and  geography,  and  al- 
ready she  was  the  organist  in  the  village  church 
until  the  Germans  blew  the  roof  in  and  the  rains 
have  ruined  the  organ.  The  old  doctor  is  also 

291 


His  Daughter 

her  friend.  Jointly  he  and  the  cure  have  been 
her  guardians  ever  since  the  death  of  the  foster- 
parents.  She  has  the  same  name  as  the  mother, 
Claire  D'Avril;  that  is  why  it  has  been  not 
impossible  to  find  her,  and  she  is  very  beau- 
tiful." 

Dayton  was  very  deeply  moved.  Presently  he 
said:  "The  Germans — they  were  in  Bois  Dormis  ?" 

"Yes,  monsieur;  but  so  was  the  old  doctor,  and 
so  was  the  old  cure.  No  harm  came  to  her.  Only 
fancy,  monsieur,  this  old  doctor  is  quite  a  scientist. 
He  has  in  his  house  objects  of  great  scientific  in- 
terest; among  others  there  is,  for  instance,  a  large 
stuffed  crocodile.  From  this  curious  beast,  on  the 
approach  of  the  Germans,  monsieur,  our  droll 
doctor  removes  the  stuffing,  punctures  the  hide 
with  breathing  holes,  and  for  the  stuffing  substi- 
tutes— the  young  lady.  The  neighbors  speak  of 
her  as  'Our  Little  Lady  of  the  Crocodile.  .  .  .' 
Among  the  young  women  of  Bois  Dormis,  mon- 
sieur, Mademoiselle  Claire  D'Avril  was  one  of 
them  to  escape.  .  .  .  That  is  a  fair  percentage, 
when  you  consider  that  it  is  a  very  little  vil- 
lage '' 

Dayton  interrupted  almost  brusquely,  so  great 
was  his  excitement. 

"The  fog,"  he  exclaimed.  "Does  it  lift  at  all  ?" 
292 


His  Daughter 

"If  monsieur  is  willing  to  fly  low,  the  conditions 
are  not  altogether  bad." 

"How  far  is  Bois  Dormis  ?" 

"A  hundred  and  thirty-two  kilometres." 

"You  know  the  way  ?  Good !  Get  the  car 
out  of  the  hangar.  You  accompany  me." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Dumal.  He  was  sincere. 
What  he  had  heard  concerning  "Our  Little  Lady 
of  the  Crocodile"  had  immensely  excited  his 
interest. 

It  was  one  of  those  days,  all  too  frequent,  which 
the  devil  seems  to  spew  up  for  the  protection  of 
the  invading  armies.  You  could  not  fly  against 
the  enemy;  for  if  you  flew  high  enough  to  stand  a 
chance  with  his  anti-aircraft  equipment,  you  flew 
among  clouds  and  mists,  so  that  his  trenches, 
guns,  positions,  and  movements  of  munitions  were 
completely  hidden  from  you.  On  such  days  the 
airmen  are  not  sent  out,  and  they  do  as  they 
please. 

Flying  low,  however,  the  landmarks  of  the 
country  were  mistily  visible,  and,  roaring  at  top- 
speed,  Dayton's  tiny  plane  picked  up,  one  by  one 
and  very  swiftly,  the  steeples,  the  hills,  and  the 
bridges  which,  like  blazed  trees  in  a  forest,  marked 
the  airway  to  Bois  Dormis. 

293 


His  Daughter 

With  a  graceful  half-turn,  such  as  a  plover 
makes  when  it  sets  its  wings  to  light  on  a  sand- 
bar, Dayton  landed  in  the  midst  of  a  dew-drenched 
pasture. 

His  progress  across  the  field  was  slow.  Wooden 
crosses  and  low  mounds  marked  the  graves  of 
French  soldiers  who  had  died  for  their  country. 
At  each  grave  custom  and  the  reverence  in  his 
rheart  compelled  Dayton  to  halt,  to  bring  his  heels 
together  with  a  sharp  click,  and  to  salute  delib- 
erately. Dumal,  hard  at  his  master's  heels,  imi- 
tated him  exactly. 

They  did  not  speak  until  they  were  in  the  vil- 
lage. 

"That  will  be  a  hard  field  to  plough,"  said  Day- 
ton. 

"It  will  be  best  to  put  a  fence  about  each  grave," 
said  Dumal,  "and  let  the  cattle  graze  between. 
This  village  was  taken  and  retaken  many  times." 

Of  the  fifty-odd  houses  which  had  composed  the 
red-roofed  village  of  Bois  Dormis,  only  that  of 
the  doctor  remained  entirely  habitable.  The  vil- 
lage was  a  shambles  of  blackened  limestone,  of 
tumbled  brick  chimneys,  of  twisted  iron  bedsteads. 
Of  the  church  there  stood  only  the  four  walls. 
The  roof  had  fallen  in  and  the  spire  had  followed. 
But  where  old  gardens  had  not  been  buried  too 

294 


His  Daughter 

deep  with  debris  were  patches  of  bright  color;  and 
among  these  roses  and  perennials  old  peasant 
women  were  weeding  and  watering  just  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened. 

Hard  by  the  church  stood  the  cure's  house.  A 
noble  pear-tree,  pruned  and  trained  to  the  last 
inch,  had  once  covered  the  whole  of  the  front; 
but  some  highly  cultured  Teuton  had  hacked 
through  the  thick  trunk  which  sprouted  from  the 
ground  at  the  right  of  the  front  door,  so  that  the 
loving  care  of  a  hundred  years  had  never  a  leaf 
to  show. 

Dayton  knocked  upon  the  door  and  it  was  al- 
most instantly  opened  by  the  cure.  To  that  one 
people  came  with  their  troubles  at  all  hours  of  the 
day  and  night,  and  he  never  kept  them  waiting. 

"My  friend,"  said  Dayton  to  Dumal,  "come 
back  in  an  hour." 

Then  he  went  into  the  house  with  the  cure. 

"I  have  come,"  said  Dayton,  "to  see  Claire 
D'Avril." 

His  voice  was  trembling.  So  were  his  knees. 
The  eagle  had  lost  his  coldness. 

"She  will  return  presently,"  said  the  cure. 
"She  does  our  cooking  next  door.  We  lost  our 
kitchen  and  our  scullery  in  the  last  bombardment. 
.  .  .  You  are  not  well.  Please  sit  down.  I  have 

295 


His  Daughter 

here  a  bottle  of  cognac.  Perhaps  a  little  glass 
would  do  us  both  good." 

The  old  man  fetched  the  cognac  and  two  little 
glasses  from  a  carved  walnut  cabinet,  dusted  the 
neck  of  the  bottle  with  a  clean  napkin,  and  filled 
the  glasses. 

He  was  very  thin  and  frail,  the  color  of  a  wax 
candle.  He  was  over  eighty;  but  he  had  perfect 
vision  and  his  black  eyes  had  all  the  fire  and  valor 
of  youth. 

Dayton  gulped  down  the  brandy.  Then  he 
spoke. 

"My  father,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  very  solemn 
moment  in  my  life.  Claire  D'Avril  is  my  daugh- 
ter. It  is  only  within  the  year  that  I  have  learned 
of  her  existence.  I  have  come  in  order  that  I 
may  undo,  as  much  as  is  possible,  the  evil  that 
I  have  done." 

"The  evil  is  not  beyond  remedy,  perhaps,"  said 
the  cure.  "You  are  a  Protestant?" 

"But  I  have  often  thought  that  I  should  like 
to  confess  my  sins  to  a  good  man — like  yourself. 
I  do  not  know  the  forms.  May  I  tell  you  how 
Claire  D'Avril  happens  to  be  in  this  world,  and 
how  it  happens  that  I  seem  to  have  abandoned 
her  and  her  mother  before  her?" 

The  old  cure  nodded  and,  leaning  forward,  his 
296 


His  Daughter 

chin  in  his  hand,  listened.  There  was  only  one 
interruption. 

Fingers  tapped  upon  the  door  that  led  into  the 
next  room,  and  the  cure  called  out:  "Don't  come 
in  at  this  moment.  I  am  receiving  a  confession." 

"That  was  she  ?"  asked  Dayton. 

The  cure  nodded,  and  Dayton  went  on  with  his 
story,  concealing  nothing,  to  the  end.  Then  the 
cure  smiled  his  gentle,  wise  old  smile.  "I  have 
listened  to  worse  things,  my  son,"  he  said,  "and 
your  repentance  seems  to  me  full  and  without 
flaw.  If  you  had  not  sinned  our  little  Claire 
would  not  have  existed.  She  has  lived  a  happy 
life,  and  she  has  made  many  others  happy." 

"Her  mother?"  Dayton  asked. 

"Of  her  own  accord,"  said  the  cure,  "she  re- 
nounced the  child  many  years  ago.  The  life  she 
had  been  obliged  to  lead  had  rendered  her  unfit 
in  her  own  eyes  to  enjoy  the  privilege  of  being  a 
mother.  The  last  time  she  came,  and  that  is 
many  years  ago,  the  neighbors  suspected  her  for 
what  she  was.  .  .  .  All  this  is  very  tragic.  In 
many  ways  I  have  never  known  a  better  woman." 

"What  has  become  of  her?" 

"I  do  not  know.  But  it  may  be  that,  through 
renunciation  and  self-sacrifice,  she  has  found  hap- 
piness. In  my  youth,"  he  continued,  "I  was  very 

297 


His  Daughter 

sharp  with  sinners,  but  in  later  years  more  lenient. 
But  you  have  confessed,  and  I  am  to  impose  a 
penance — is  that  your  desire?" 

"Why,  yes.  If  you  can  think  of  any  penance 
which  will  make  for  expiation." 

"To  the  mother,"  said  the  old  man,  "you  have 
a  very  obvious  duty — if  you  can  find  her.  That 
duty  is,  of  course,  purely  financial.  A  greater 
duty  is  to  your  own  wife.  It  is  not  possible  for 
you  to  love  her  as  she  deserves  to  be  loved.  But 
at  least  a  clever  man,  whose  heart  is  in  the  right 
place,  can  always  make  the  woman  who  loves 
him  believe  that  he  loves  her.  I  give  you  this 
penance:  to  find  me  Claire  D'Avril's  mother,  if 
that  is  possible,  and  to  make  her  as  comfortable 
as  may  be  for  the  rest  of  her  life;  to  reunite  with 
your  own  wife  in  a  true  marriage.  You  are  not 
too  old  to  hope  for  children  to  take  the  places  of 
those  which  you  have  lost " 


"But  I  have  only  lost  my  Ellen " 

The  cure  shook  his  head. 

"Will  you,  my  son,  by  disclosing  yourself,  dis- 
turb the  simple,  sane  ideas  and  the  real  happiness 
of  many  years'  standing  ?  You  cannot  take 
Claire  with  you  into  your  world — a  thousand 
things  forbid.  And  if,  in  that  sweet-tempered 
mind,  there  is  any  room  for  discontent,  would  you 

298 


His  Daughter 

be  the  means  of  putting  it  there  ?  .  .  .  Here  with 
us,  in  spite  of  all  our  shortcomings  and  narrow- 
ness, she  has  been  happy.  She  will  continue  to 
be  as  happy  as  it  is  right  to  be  in  these  evil  days. 
.  .  .  My  son,  I  have  indicated  the  penance." 

"But,"  exclaimed  Dayton,  "she  is  flesh  of  my 
flesh — bone  of  my  bone ! " 

"If  she  were  other,  there  could  be  no  penance 
in  renouncing  her.  .  .  .  Do  you  find  no  wisdom 
in  what  I  have  said  to  you,  my  son  ?" 

"Wisdom,  father,  yes.     But  also  pain  that  is 

almost  intolerable.  ...     I  am  rich,  father " 

"She  has  never  felt  the  want  of  money." 
"I  would  love  her  as  no  one  else  could." 
"She  was  a  delicate  baby  when  she  first  came 
to  Bois  Dormis,"  said  the  cure  gently.  "In  our 
pleasant  country  air  she  grew  strong.  There  is 
no  longer  any  stiffness  in  her  arm.  ...  It  re- 
sulted from  some  sickness  of  childhood.  Our  good 
doctor  cared  for  her  body.  Twice  a  year  he  took 
her  to  the  American  dentist  in  Nancy.  I  cared 
for  her  soul.  Between  us  we  have  cared  for  her 
mind.  The  man  who  is  so  fortunate  as  to  marry 
her  will  have  the  best  housekeeper  and  the  best 
bookkeeper  in  Lorraine.  Even  in  the  great  world 
of  music  she  would  be  a  success.  But  she  does 
not  know  that.  You  were  speaking  of  the  superior 

299 


His  Daughter 

sort  of  love  that  you  could  give  her.  There  is  an 
honest  boy  of  this  country  who  loves  her  very 
dearly,  and  she  loves  him  in  the  same  way.  When 
this  cruel  war  is  over  they  are  to  be  married." 

"He  is  in  the  army?'* 

"Of  course." 

"And  you  think  I  should  only  interfere  with 
their  happiness  ?" 

"It  is  best  that  they  work  out  their  destiny  in 
the  station  of  life  to  which  they  are  accustomed 
and  to  which  they  are  attached." 

"At  least,  my  father,  let  me  recompense  you 
for  all  that  she  has  cost." 

"Can  you  give  me  back  the  fifteen  years  of  de- 
votion that  I  have  given  her  ?  You  cannot.  I 
would  not  take  it  back  if  you  could." 

"Will  you  accept  from  me  a  new  roof  for  your 
church,  and  a  new  spire?" 

"Willingly,  my  son." 

Dayton's  head  dropped  forward  in  deep  reflec- 
tion. 

"Could  I  see  her  ?"  he  asked  presently.  "I  will 
promise  not  to  reveal  myself." 

"You  are  only  making  your  penance  harder." 

"It  will  be  no  harder  than  I  deserve." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  cure,  "you  shall 
have  your  wish." 

300 


His  Daughter 

He  stepped  to  the  door  which  led  to  the  ad- 
joining room,  opened  it,  and  in  a  caressing 
voice : 

"Claire,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "a  glass  of  water, 
if  you  please,  for  the  American  aviator." 

She  came  presently  carrying  a  great  white-and- 
gold  pitcher  and  a  tumbler.  The  fashion  of  her 
dress  was  lost  upon  Dayton.  He  saw  only  her 
face  and  her  eyes.  She  resembled  Ellen  as  one 
pansy  resembles  another. 

He  had  risen,  and  his  hand  trembled  as  he  lifted 
the  tumbler  of  water  to  his  lips. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said. 

"Don't  mention  it,  monsieur,"  she  said.  And 
she  had  an  odd  quality  of  Ellen's  voice,  a  certain 
deep  and  tranquil  quality  that  ripped  and  tore 
his  heart-strings. 

"Our  hero,"  said  the  old  cure,  who  was  watching 
Dayton  very  closely,  "has  flown  far  and  fast.  It 
takes  muscle  to  fly.  See,  my  dear,  how  his  hands 
tremble!" 

And  he  laughed  quietly.  Dayton  put  the  of- 
fending hands  behind  his  back. 

"The  good  father,"  he  said,  "tells  me  that  you 
are  engaged  to  be  married." 

"Oui,  monsieur.     It  is  true." 

"Do  you  love  each  other  very  much  ?" 
301 


His  Daughter 

She  only  smiled  serenely  and  looked  him  in  the 
eyes. 

"You  would  rather  have  him  than  anything 
else  you  can  think  of — riches — fine  clothes — mo- 
tors— j  ewels 

"Tell  him  not  to  tease  me,"  she  appealed  to  the 
cure;  "he  thinks  I  am  a  child." 

Dayton  felt  as  if  he  was  standing  by  an  open 
grave.  He  smiled  crookedly. 

"My  father,"  he  said,  "put  just  a  drop  of  the 
brandy  in  this  water.  I  have  got  to  go,  and  up 
there  in  the  fogs  and  mists  it  is  very  cold,  and 
everything  is  uncertain." 

When  the  door  had  closed  upon  Dayton,  Claire 
D'Avril  stood  looking  at  it  for  some  moments. 

"He  appeared  very  much  moved,  the  Ameri- 
can," she  said  presently. 

"Not  so  long  ago,"  said  the  cure,  "he  lost  his 
only  child.  Doubtless  you  reminded  him  of 
her.  .  .  .  His  name  is  Dayton.  He  has  a  good 
heart.  ...  I  shall  mention  him  sometimes  in 
my  prayers." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Claire  D'Avril,  "so  will 
I,  if  it's  the  proper  thing  to  do.  And  besides, 
there  was  something  about  him  that  touched  me." 

Dayton  had  been  admitted  to  the  doctor's  house. 

302 


His  Daughter 

Dumal  waited  in  the  broken  village  street.  The 
doctor  was  as  old  as  the  cure,  and  like  him  he  was 
alert  and  keenly  alive. 

"I  have  a  favor  to  ask,"  said  Dayton;  "I  wish 
to  see  the  crocodile  in  which  you  hid  Claire  D'A- 
vril  from  the  Germans." 

"With  pleasure,  Monsieur  FAviateur.  This 
way." 

The  famous  crocodile  lay  along  the  end  wall  of 
the  doctor's  museum;  it  was  very  old,  and  broken 
in  places. 

"At  night,"  said  the  doctor,  "we  let  her  out, 
so  that  she  could  stretch  herself  and  breathe  freely. 
This  rent  was  made  by  a  drunken  soldier  with  his 
bayonet.  He  thought  the  beast  was  alive.  It 
missed  her  by  a  finger's  breadth." 

Dayton  knelt  by  the  dusty  crocodile,  and  broke 
down  completely.  He  sobbed  and  cried  like  a 
little  child. 

The  doctor  watched  him,  chin  in  hand. 

"I  guessed  who  he  was  from  the  resemblance," 
he  thought,  "and  now  I  know." 

He  laid  a  firm  hand  on  Dayton's  shoulder. 

"You  have  told  her  who  you  are  ?" 

Dayton  shook  his  head.  Gradually  the  sobs 
ceased,  and  he  rose  totteringly  to  his  feet. 

"I  am  not  to  tell  her,"  he  said,  "ever.  That  is 
303 


His  Daughter 

part  of  the  penance.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  for  making 
a  fool  of  myself,  but  God  gave  me  two  daughters, 
my  friend,  and  within  the  year  I  have  buried  them 
both." 

Presently,  his  jaws  set,  his  nerves  in  iron  con- 
trol, his  heart  beating  quietly,  he  was  once  more 
scudding  through  the  low-hanging  mists.  The 
next  day  was  bright  and  clear,  and  Dayton,  ten 
thousand  feet  above  the  troubles  of  this  earth, 
met  an  enemy  aviator  and  in  fair  fight  slew  him. 

The  next  day  his  own  machine  was  crumpled 
by  a  burst  of  shrapnel.  As  Dayton  neared  the 
ground  back  of  the  French  lines  flames  burst  from 
his  gasolene-tank  and  followed  him  like  the  tail  of 
a  comet. 

When  they  snatched  him  from  the  wreckage 
his  clothes  had  begun  to  burn,  and  the  blood  that 
gushed  from  a  wound  in  his  right  breast  sputtered 
and  hissed  as  it  became  steam. 


304 


IX 

ABOVE  the  forest  floated  a  great  Red  Cross 
flag.  Its  flagpole,  however,  was  not  at- 
tached to  a  hospital,  but  to  a  tree,  and  served  as 
a  sort  of  rallying-point  for  the  farthest-flung 
German  shells. 

The  hospital  itself,  a  coquettish  Louis  XVIth 
chateau,  carried  no  dangerous  distinguishing 
marks.  Its  roof,  indeed,  was  gravelled  and 
painted  to  represent  paths  and  flower-beds,  so 
that  to  the  passing  air  pirate,  on  murder  bent,  the 
building  resembled  a  part  of  the  large  garden  in 
which  it  stood. 

Only  very  sick  men  were  taken  to  that  hospi- 
tal; men  too  sick  to  be  carried  by  train  to  the 
more  luxurious  and  better-equipped  base  hospi- 
tals. It  was  a  life-or-death  sort  of  place.  In  the 
old  gardens,  since  they  had  been  cultivated  and 
loved  for  generations,  the  digging  was  good,  and 
there  were  almost  as  many  white  wooden  crosses 
as  rose-trees. 

The  garden  was  enclosed  by  a  tall  wall  of  stone, 
plastered  over.  Fruit-trees  trained  against  the 
wall  resembled  a  charming  collection  of  ladies* 

305 


His  Daughter 

fans.  At  each  corner  of  the  garden  was  a  round 
tower  with  a  candle-snuffer  top. 

Dorothy  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  place,  and 
she  hoped  that  when  the  war  was  over  she  might 
be  able  to  buy  it.  Under  the  gravelled  and 
painted  roof  war  had  lost  its  horror  for  her,  and 
she  had  known  peace.  The  sufferings  patiently 
borne  and  the  deaths  gallantly  encountered  had 
immensely  broadened  her  grasp  of  life — its  mean- 
ings, its  splendors,  and  its  futilities. 

"But  for  this  war,"  she  sometimes  thought, 
"humanity  might  have  rotted  away  and  left  no 
record  to  prove  that  at  heart  it  is  noble." 

The  garrison,  if  I  may  so  call  them,  of  that 
hospital  were  picked  men  and  women.  They  had 
been  graduated,  so  to  speak,  from  the  base  hos- 
pitals because  of  their  peculiar  fitness,  their 
strength,  skill,  and  courage. 

The  chief  surgeon  was  only  twenty-seven  years 
old.  He  had  the  same  sort  of  character  that  men 
should  have  who  command  armies  or  dread- 
naughts.  Short  of  equipment  and  supplies,  he 
performed  miracles  in  the  improvised  and  not 
well-lighted  operating-theatre. 

The  nurses  represented  various  classes  of  so- 
ciety. The  money-spending  class,  if  I  must  not 
say  the  aristocratic  class,  was  represented  by 

306 


His  Daughter 

Dorothy  herself  and  the  young  Duchess  of  Tours. 
There  were  the  wife  of  a  clerk  in  the  government 
service,  two  deep-chested,  indomitable  peasant 
women  from  the  neighborhood,  and  among  others 
a  woman  who,  in  spite  of  a  certain  gentleness  and 
sweetness  of  manner,  looked  as  if  she  had  suffered 
almost  as  much  as  she  had  lived. 

Even  in  her  Red  Cross  costume  Adele  Soubisse 
looked  as  if  she  were  playing  a  part.  Her  face  was 
thin  and  deeply  lined;  she  had  the  kind  of  skin 
that  women  who  paint  their  faces  develop  during 
an  illness  when  they  no  longer  care  how  they  look. 
Her  hair  had  once  been  bleached  or  dyed  a  bright 
yellow;  but  since  the  last  application  of  the  dye 
the  hair  had  grown  nearly  three  inches,  and  these 
three  inches  were  a  deep  red  splashed  with  gray. 

But  the  only  questions  asked  in  that  hospital 
concerning  a  nurse  were  these:  "Is  she  strong?" 
"Can  she  bandage?"  "In  short,  does  she  know 
her  business  ?" 

Among  all  the  nurses  no  one  was  more  skilful 
then  Adele  Soubisse.  Therefore  her  somewhat 
obvious  past  was  very  properly  ignored,  and  even 
that  highborn  and  fastidious  lady  the  Duchess  of 
Tours  treated  her  as  an  equal. 

The  little  Ford  ambulance  hurried  up  the  drive, 
past  the  pond  with  the  swans,  and  through  the 

307 


His  Daughter 

plantation  of  lilacs,  as  fast  as  its  faithful  little 
engine  could  carry  it. 

The  driver  and  his  stretcher-bearer  extracted 
from  the  back,  not  without  difficulty  because  of 
the  weight,  a  stretcher  on  which  lay  a  very  big 
man  covered  to  the  eyes  with  a  blanket. 

The  driver  and  the  stretcher-bearer  carried  him 
into  the  receiving-room  of  the  hospital,  and  a  few 
moments  later  emerged  with  the  empty  stretcher, 
slipped  it  back  into  its  rack,  and  drove  recklessly 
away. 

The  orderlies  undressed  the  wounded  man  in  a 
very  swift  and  businesslike  way.  They  simply 
cut  his  clothes  off  with  scissors.  They  washed  him 
all  over  with  soap  and  water,  dried  him,  lifted  him 
to  a  sterile  stretcher,  and  carried  him  at  once  to 
the  operating-room.  The  chief  surgeon  was  wait- 
ing. And  so  the  wounded  man  was  lifted  at  once 
from  the  stretcher  to  the  operating-table. 

Dorothy  Dayton  happened  to  be  on  duty. 
When  the  surgeon  started  to  pull  down  the  sheet 
and  she  saw  the  face  of  the  wounded  man,  she 
screamed  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  fainted 
dead  away.  The  surgeon  did  not  turn  his  head. 

"Take  Mrs.  Dayton  away  and  send  the  Sou- 
bisse  to  take  her  place." 

When  Adele  Soubisse  saw  the  face  of  the 
308 


His  Daughter 

wounded  man  she  too  had  the  impulse  to  scream, 
but  she  managed  to  control  herself.  The  hand 
with  which  she  picked  up  the  chloroform  cone 
trembled,  however,  and  the  surgeon  exclaimed: 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  women  to-day?" 

So  saying  he  dipped  a  great  sponge  in  iodine 
and  slathered  it  widely  over  the  wounded  man's 
chest. 

"He  has  been  burned  too,"  he  said,  "but  not 
badly." 

While  the  wounded  man  inhaled  the  chloroform 
he  grew  icy  cold,  and  they  wrapped  his  legs  and 
abdomen  in  hot  blankets.  And  the  surgeon  con- 
sulted a  ticket  which  had  come  with  the  wounded 
man,  like  an  invoice  with  a  consignment  of  goods: 
"One-half  grain  morphine — anti-tetanus  serum — 
landed  with  great  violence — may  have  inhaled 
flames — I  think  not — possible  internal  injuries." 

He  laid  the  ticket  down,  washed  and  scrubbed 
his  hands  and  forearms  for  the  last  time,  selected 
a  pair  of  curved  scissors  from  a  sterilizing  tray, 
and  attacked  the  gorgeous  form  of  youth  and 
genius. 

The  scissors  clicked  and  rasped  savagely,  and 
the  round  hole  in  the  wounded  man's  breast  began 
to  open  like  some  horrible  dark-crimson  flower. 

At  that  moment  Dorothy  Dayton  returned  to 
309 


His  Daughter 

the  post  of  duty.  She  reached  out  her  hand  to 
take  the  chloroform  cone  from  Adele  Soubisse, 
but  the  woman  with  the  unsavory  past  shook  her 
head. 

"He's  my  husband,"  protested  Mrs.  Dayton. 

"All  the  more  reason  why  a — a  comparative 
stranger,  whose  nerves  will  not  give  way,  should 
be  in  attendance,"  said  Adele  Soubisse. 

"Stop  quarrelling,  ladies,"  exclaimed  the  sur- 
geon, "or  else  I  shall  execute  the  judgment  of 
Solomon.  I  shall  cut  this  poor  fellow  in  two  and 
give  you  each  half!" 

Dayton  presently,  his  wound  draining  and  ban- 
daged, his  burns  paraffined,  was  carried  to  a  bed 
in  the  main  ward.  But  both  Dorothy  and  Adele 
Soubisse  remained  in  the  operating-room.  An- 
other case  had  arrived  and  was  ready  to  go  on  the 
table,  and  the  ordinary  routine  nursing  in  the 
wards  had  to  be  left  in  less  skilful  hands. 

It  speaks  well  for  the  discipline  that  comes  from 
continued  self-sacrifice  that  Dorothy  Dayton 
made  no  plea  to  be  allowed  to  nurse  her  husband. 
Her  duty,  and  she  knew  it  well,  was  to  the  am- 
putation case  that  was  being  laid  on  the  operat- 
ing-table, one  foot  dangling  and  the  other  blown 
clean  off.  If  Dayton  was  going  to  die,  even,  it 

310 


His  Daughter 

was  her  duty  not  to  be  with  him  during  his  last 
minutes,  if  during  those  minutes  some  other 
badly  wounded  man  had  need  of  her  skill. 

All  day  badly  hurt  men  came  dribbling  into  the 
hospital,  for  there  had  been  a  battle,  but  toward 
dusk  the  last  one  had  been  bandaged  and  put  to 
bed  and  Dorothy  Dayton  and  Adele  Soubisse 
had  their  first  opportunity  to  visit  the  main  ward 
to  which  Dayton  had  been  taken. 

But  there  was  nothing  that  they  could  do.  He 
was  either  asleep  or  unconscious.  It  was  difficult 
to  detect  any  rise  and  fall  of  the  broad,  deep 
chest. 

They  turned  away  presently  and  had  a  look 
at  all  the  others  who  had  "passed  over  the  table" 
that  day,  and  then,  by  common  accord,  they 
slipped  bareheaded  into  the  garden  and  strolled 
side  by  side,  breathing  long  breaths  of  the  sweet 
air  and  ridding  their  lungs  and  clothes  of  the 
aftermath  of  chloroform. 

"You  are  very  brave,"  said  Adele  Soubisse 
presently.  "For  I  can  see  that  you  love  him 
very  much." 

"He  is  all  that  I  have  in  the  world,"  said  Doro- 
thy simply.  "We  lost  our  little  girl." 

"That  is  hard.  I  also  lost  my  little  girl.  But 
not  in  the  same  way.  I  gave  her  up  so  that  she 


His  Daughter 

might  never  be  ashamed  of  me.  Yes,  life  is  very 
hard." 

"I  used  to  think  so,"  said  Dorothy.  "But 
you  and  I  have  both  seen  misfortunes  by  the  side 
of  which  our  own  seem  of  little  account.  When 
every  one  is  so  brave  it  is  not  easy  to  be  a  coward." 

"Monsieur  Dayton  was  in  the  aviation?" 

"At  first  he  was  with  an  ambulance;  but  men 
do  not  like  to  be  regarded  as  non-combatants." 

"This  pesky  hair  of  mine!"  exclaimed  Adele 
Soubisse.  A  loop  had  come  loose  and  fallen  for- 
ward over  one  eye.  "It's  a  wonder  people  don't 
laugh  whenever  they  see  me.  But  at  one  time 
yellow  was  all  the  fashion.  .  .  ."  She  patted  the 
loop  back  into  place  and  fastened  it  with  a  pin. 
"It  was  very  foolish  of  me,  for  the  original  color 
was  not  really  half-bad." 

"What  made  you  change?"  Dorothy  asked. 

"Oh,  madame,  people  like  me — we  have  our 
popularity  to  think  of.  One  feels  that  one  is  get- 
ting old — the  hair-dresser  guarantees  a  certain 
effect — and  behold  we  are  disfigured  beyond  re- 
pair. .  .  .  Dinner  ought  to  be  ready.  .  .  .  Shall 
we  see  how  your  husband  is  getting  on  ?  ...  I 
too  feel  a  great  interest  in  him.  ...  A  thousand 
years  ago  I  thought  that  I  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried to  a  man  who  resembled  him." 


His  Daughter 

"And  what  happened,  Adele?" 

"He  left  me,  madame." 

They  walked  in  silence  through  the  darkening 
garden. 

"What  did  you  say,  Adele  ?" 

"Did  I  say  something?  I  must  have  been 
thinking  aloud.  After  him,  I  was  thinking,  the 
deluge !  But  every  one  is  kind  here.  People 
now  are  only  interested  in  what  a  woman  can  do 
— not  in  what  she  has  done." 

Once  more  they  stood  beside  Dayton. 

"All  right?"  Dorothy  asked  the  nurse  who 
had  charge  of  him. 

"He  wakened  two  hours  ago  and  asked  for  a 
little  water.  He  is  stronger,  I  think.  It  is  good 
for  him  to  sleep." 

The  occupant  of  the  corner  bed  was  hidden 
from  view  by  a  common  Japanese-paper  screen. 
As  they  passed  out  on  the  way  to  the  dining-room 
Dorothy  Dayton  bowed  her  head  and  Adele  Sou- 
bisse  crossed  herself.  For  that  paper  screen,  with 
its  flight  of  white  herons  against  a  background  of 
snow-capped  Fuji,  meant  that  a  man's  work  in 
this  world  was  over  and  that  a  soul  was  passing  on. 

"It  is  the  amputation  case,"  said  Adele  when 
they  were  outside.  "He  had  lost  too  much 
blood." 

313 


His  Daughter 

During  the  night  Dayton  waked  again  and 
asked  for  water.  After  that  he  was  fretful  and 
restless.  Dorothy  had  asked  to  be  called  and 
presently  she  was  bending  over  him. 

His  mouth  quivered. 

"Is  it  so  bad  ?"  he  whispered. 

"It  isn't  bad  at  all,"  said  Dorothy  decidedly. 
"It's  just  an  accident  that  I  happen  to  be  here. 
I'm  on  duty  in  this  hospital." 

The  wounded  man  nodded  a  number  of 
times. 

"I  remember  now,"  he  said.  "I  asked  to  be 
brought  here.  This  is  Deux  Fontaines.  But  I 
had  forgotten." 

"Are  you  comfy  ?" 

"Now  I've  got  you." 

She  got  a  basin  of  water  and  from  a  sponge 
squeezed  cool  water  repeatedly  over  his  wrists 
and  hands. 

"That's  good,"  he  said  several  times.  "That's 
good!" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  She  hoped  that  he 
would  fall  asleep.  But  there  was  something  on 
his  mind. 

"I  found  her,  Dorothy,"  he  said. 

"The  little  girl  ?  I'm  glad.  But  we'll  not  talk 
about  things  until  you  are  stronger." 

3H 


His  Daughter 

"I  am  not  to  see  her  any  more,"  he  said.  A 
few  tears  oozed  out  of  his  eyes  and  ran  down  his 
cheeks.  Then  he  said:  "It  doesn't  matter.  I 
have  you." 

Holding  her  hand  with  a  surprising  show  of 
strength,  he  abandoned  himself  to  sleep. 

When  she  returned  to  her  dormitory,  which 
she  shared  with  Adele  Soubisse,  and  which  during 
the  daytime  was  occupied  by  two  of  the  night 
nurses,  she  found  Adele  sitting  up  in  bed  and 
eager  for  the  news. 

"All  right?  "she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Dorothy  gently,  "he's  reached  the 
little-child  stage." 

"They  all  do  when  the  shock  begins  to  affect 
them." 

"It's  good  of  you  to  take  so  much  interest, 
Adele.  It  makes  everything  so  much  easier  for 
me." 

She  slipped  into  bed  and  after  a  little  tossing 
slept. 

Not  so  Adele  Soubisse;  for  she  had  that  within 
her  heart  which  defied  sleep  and  solace.  She  lay 
flat  upon  her  back  staring  into  the  dark;  one  hand 
clutched  at  the  region  above  her  heart,  the  other 
was  clinched  so  that  the  short  nails  made  deep 
dents  in  the  palm.  "O  God,"  she  thought,  "have 

315 


His  Daughter 

a  little  pity;  for  I  feel  toward  him  just  as  I  used 
to  feel  when  I  was  Claire  D'Avril!" 

No  new  cases  came  in,  and  the  chief  surgeon 
was  having  late  breakfast  and  cigarettes  in  the 
garden.  It  was  here  that  Adele  Soubisse  found 
him.  She  sat  down  on  the  bench  beside  him  and 
he  made  her  accept  a  cup  of  coffee.  He  had  a 
special  coffee  for  himself;  it  was  very  bad,  but  he 
was  very  proud  of  it. 

"Well,  Adele,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "is  it  for 
this  morning,  the  story  of  your  life  ?  You  know 
you  promised  for  that  important  book  which  I 
am  to  write  some  day." 

"I  am  actually  going  to  tell  you  something," 
said  Adele.  "But  first,  monsieur,  I  wish  you  to 
find  some  one  to  take  my  place." 

"Impossible.  You  are  too  familiar  with  my 
ways.  I  can't  spare  you." 

"It  is  because  of  Madame  Dayton  and  her 
husband,"  said  Adele.  "You  have  often  asked 
me  for  the  story  of  my  life.  Very  well,  I  will  tell 
you  the  beginning.  The  beginning  was  Monsieur 
Dayton." 

"You  do  not  wish  him  to  recognize  you  ?" 

"It  isn't  that.  She — she  has  been  very  good 
to  me.  We  have  shared  the  same  room,  the  same 

316 


His  Daughter 

hours.  Never  by  word  or  sign  has  she  made  me 
feel  that  there  is  any  difference  between  us.  She 
is  an  angel !" 

"And  you  ?    You  are  not  an  angel  ?" 

Adele  Soubisse  couldn't  help  laughing  at  that. 
The  surgeon  smote  the  arm  of  the  bench  with  his 
fist. 

"And  I  say  you  are,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  say 
there  is  no  better  woman  in  France,  and  when  I 
say  that  I  am  speaking  in  terms  of  angels." 

"I  could  not  bear  to  be  the  cause  of  hurting  her." 

"Seriously,"  said  the  surgeon,  "it  seems  to  me 
that  you  have  only  to  keep  away  from  him.  Then, 
if  that  isn't  satisfactory — well,  you  deserve  some- 
thing, and  I  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

"I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,"  she  said. 
Adele  Soubisse  finished  her  coffee. 

"Sometimes,"  she  said,  "I  think  the  war  was 
sent  so  that  whole  peoples  might  redeem  their 
sins.  Surely  the  pasts  of  those  who  have  served, 
fought,  and  died  will  be  forgiven." 

"I  am  told,"  said  the  surgeon,  "that  you  may 
leave  your  money  on  a  bench  in  Montmartre  and 
find  it  there  when  you  return." 

"And  after  the  war,"  said  Adele,  "it  will  not 
be  necessary  to  go  back  to  the  old  way  of  making 
a  living." 

317 


His  Daughter 

"There  will  be  plenty  of  honest  work  for  every 
one/' 

"Hitherto  it  has  never  been  like  that/' 
"What  shall  you  do  when  the  war  is  over  ?" 
"I  shall  continue  to  be  a  nurse,  if  I  may." 
Secretly    Adele    Soubisse    believed    that    after 
many  years  of  redemption  she  might  be  considered 
fit  to  associate  with  her  daughter. 

Two  days  later  the  surgeon  told  her  that  he 
had  found  a  place  for  her  and  some  one  to  take 
her  place.  "To-morrow  morning,"  he  said,  "the 
inspector-general  will  bring  the  new  nurse  and 
will  take  you  to  the  hospital  with  which  the  ex- 
change has  been  arranged." 

Late  that  night,  while  Dorothy  Dayton  slept 
soundly,  Adele  Soubisse  rose  stealthily,  dressed  in 
the  dark,  and  went  down  to  the  main  ward  to  see 
Dayton  for  the  last  time. 

She  stood  for  a  while  looking  at  him  and  think- 
ing of  old  times.  Then  she  bent  swiftly  and 
touched  his  hand  with  her  lips.  But  he  was  not, 
as  she  had  supposed,  asleep.  He  opened  his  eyes 
on  the  instant. 

In  the  dim  light  his  pupils  were  widely  ex- 
tended, so  that  in  the  white  face  the  eyes  looked 
like  two  pools  of  ink.  She  could  not  withhold  an 
exclamation  of  love  and  pity  commingled,  and 


His  Daughter 

she  was  turning  to  make  her  escape  when  he 
caught  her  hand. 

"I'm   not    dreaming?"   he  whispered;    "it  is 

5  » 

you? 

The  wounded  men  in  the  adjoining  beds  slept 
soundly.  Having  assured  herself  of  this,  Adele 
Soubisse  knelt  by  Dayton's  bed  and  whispered: 

"Yes.     It's  I." 

Their  conversation  was  all  in  whispers. 

"I  have  hurt  you  terribly,"  he  said;  "but, 
Claire,  when  I  went  away  I  left  a  letter  for  you 
and  money." 

"I  never  received  it." 

"You  never  looked  for  it.  It  was  under  the 
tile  in  the  hearth.  Only  the  other  day  I  visited 
the  studio  and  looked,  and  there  it  was.  But  I 
wrote  many  letters." 

"I  never  received  them." 

"But  you  believe  that  I  wrote  them?" 

"Yes." 

"You  have  had  a  hard  life?" 

"Yes." 

"Listen,  Claire;  I  have  seen  our  daughter. 
They  told  me  of  your  sacrifice,  and  the  cure  in- 
sisted that  I  should  make  the  same  sacrifice.  In 
addition  he  told  me  that  I  must  find  you,  and  pro- 
vide for  you." 

319 


His  Daughter 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  am  well  provided  for,"  she  said.  "I  have 
work  to  do." 

"You  are  one  of  the  staff  in  this  hospital  ?" 

"I  go  to-morrow  to  another." 

"Why?" 

"Does  it  matter?" 

"Is  it  because  of  me  ?" 

"It  is  because  of  your  wife." 

"But  I  have  told  her  about  you." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  identified.  We  have  shared 
and  shared  alike — the  same  room — the  same  hours. 
I  love  her  very  much." 

"But  I  wish  to  do  something  for  you." 

"If  I  am  ever  in  trouble  I  will  write  to  you.  I 
have  an  address  which  will  always  reach  Madame 
Dayton.  We  have  promised  to  correspond." 

She  laughed  softly. 

"I  couldn't  go  without  seeing  you  once  more," 
she  said,  "but  I  did  not  mean  to  wake  you.  You 
are  better?  Everything  is  all  right?" 

"I  am  going  to  get  well,  but  it  will  be  slow." 

"You  will  not  fly  any  more  ?" 

"As  soon  as  they  will  let  me.  .  .  .  How  else 
could  I  get  my  sins  forgiven?" 

"There  are  sins  ?" 

"I  have  not  been  a  faithful  husband.  I  have 
320 


His  Daughter 

made  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  the  world.  But 
since  the  war  I  have  no  desire  except  to  save 
France  and  to  redeem  myself  in  my  own  eyes." 

"It  is  the  same  with  me." 

"Claire — is  there  nothing  I  can  do — nothing 
that  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  I  have  never  thought 
of  you  with  anything  but  tenderness  and  com- 
punction." 

"You  can  do  one  thing.  It  is  only  to  answer  a 
question." 

"I  will  answer  it." 

"If  you  had  known  that  there  was  going  to  be 
a  child  .  .  .?" 

"I  would  have  married  you." 

"Truly?" 

"Truly." 

She  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  "I  have  al- 
ways thought  that,"  she  said,  "and  that  thought 
has  kept  me  going  through  some  hard  times." 

"I  don't  think  I  understand." 

"It  is  very  simple.  I  loved  you  very  much. 
And  the  only  thing  that  made  life  possible  was 
believing  that  you  would  have  taken  good  care 
of  me  if  you  had  only  known." 

The  wounded  man  in  the  next  bed  thrashed 
nervously. 

"We've  disturbed  him,"  she  said.  "I  must  go.'* 
•  321 


His  Daughter 

She  bent  very  close  and  whispered: 
"Good-by,    and    good    luck.     I    have    never 

stopped  loving  you/* 

With  swift  gentleness  she  freed  her  hand  from 

his  and  stole  softly  away.     They  never  saw  each 

other  again. 

"Dorothy  dear,"  wrote  Dayton,  "the  day's 
news  has  made  us  all  very  happy.  Gurton  of  the 
escadrille  made  us  all  laugh  at  breakfast.  He 
came  up  to  me  and  stared  at  me  until  I  thought 
he  was  crazy.  I  asked  him  what  the  matter  was, 
and  he  said:  'America  has  declared  war,  and  I'm 
practising  looking  people  in  the  face  again.'  We 
all  feel  like  that.  Things  had  gotten  so  shame- 
ful that  they  simply  couldn't  be  explained  any 
more. 

"Of  course  America  can't  start  right  in  and  do 
things.  She  is  no  better  prepared  to  fight  than 
she  was  the  day  the  Germans  fired  on  Liege. 
That's  a  hard  thing  to  believe;  but  it's  a  fact  and 
there's  no  use  crying  about  it.  For  the  present 
what  counts  is  the  moral  effect;  and  if  the  Allies 
can  hang  on  for  another  twelve  months  there  will 
be  material  effects  of  real  importance. 

"The  situation  just  now  is  touch  and  go.  Rus- 
sia is  obviously  shot  to  pieces;  France  is  beginning 

322 


His  Daughter 

to  fail  in  man-power,  and  so  far  no  real  retort 
courteous  has  been  found  for  the  submarine.  But 
I  refuse  to  borrow  too  much  trouble  on  that  score. 
It  will  be  a  tight  squeeze,  but  we're  going  to  win. 
If  we  don't — then  the  quicker  the  name  of  America 
is  forgotten  the  better.  Perhaps  the  Lusitania 
and  all  the  other  outrages  were  not  a  sufficient 
cause  of  war;  at  least  they  should  have  been  a 
sufficient  cause  to  make  us  prepare  for  war;  and 
if  civilization  takes  a  licking  the  fault  will  be  with 
America.  When  I  think  that  we  might  so  easily 
have  at  this  moment  a  couple  of  million  men 
trained  and  equipped  and  ready  to  be  shipped 
over,  and  that,  roughly  speaking,  we  haven't  a 
darn  thing,  it  makes  me  sick. 

"I  brought  down  my  fourth  German  yesterday, 
and  have  been  mentioned  again  in  the  Order  of 
the  Day.  I  didn't  see  him  fall;  but  when  I'd 
circled  to  have  another  go  at  him  he'd  disap- 
peared. 

"Things  are  very  active  up  this  way.  We  fly 
four  or  five  times  a  day,  weather  permitting,  and 
the  cannon  never  stop.  We  live  in  a  dreary  bar- 
racks, which  leaks,  and  being  an  airman  is  not  the 
lordly  job  it  used  to  be. 

"It  will  be  good  when  this  war  is  over  and  we 
can  be  together  again.  I  think  about  you  almost 

323 


His  Daughter 

all  the  time.     I  am  to  have  eight  days'  leave  next 
month  and  I  will  spend  them  in  the  nearest  vil- 
lage so  that  I  can  see  you  every  day. 
"Your  loving  husband, 

"F.  D." 

About  the  future  Dayton  was  very  sanguine. 
He  had  been  through  the  fire,  and  he  felt  that  he 
was  an  instrument  which  had  been  tempered  and 
could  be  counted  on.  He  believed  that  Dorothy 
still  loved  him  and  that  God  would  permit  him 
to  make  her  happy.  And  when  in  due  time  he 
received  his  eight-day  leave,  he  lashed  a  couple 
of  bags  to  his  fighting-plane  and  literally  flew 
to  her. 

There  had  been  a  lull  in  the  fighting  and  her 
time  was  pretty  much  her  own.  They  made  a 
number  of  excursions  on  foot  to  points  of  historic 
interest,  fished  in  the  canal,  and  refreshed  them- 
selves for  the  hard  work  that  was  still  before  them. 

Sometimes  they  spoke  of  Ellen;  but  tranquilly 
and  not  as  of  a  cherished  child  who  was  lost  to 
them  forever.  Death  no  longer  seemed  a  horror 
to  them,  but  a  natural  experience  like  birth,  and 
one  to  be  neither  more  dreaded  nor  less.  Also 
they  spoke  at  times,  and  with  perfect  naturalness, 
of  Dayton's  other  daughter,  and  on  the  last  day 


His  Daughter 

of  his  leave  Dayton  spoke  of  Claire  D'Avril  her- 
self. 

"Do  you  ever  hear  from  that  nurse — what  did 
she  call  herself — who  was  here  when  I  was  sick  ?" 

"My  roommate — Adele  Soubisse?" 

He  nodded. 

"Often,"  said  Dorothy,  "and  she  always  asks 
after  you.  I  think  she's  about  the  happiest 
woman  I  know.  When  the  war  began,  she  was 
with  a  young  doctor,  and  through  him  she  got  a 
chance  to  try  her  hand  at  hospital  work;  and 
because  she  had  the  right  kind  of  disposition  and 
was  strong  as  a  horse  she  made  good.  Every 
night  when  we'd  had  a  bad  day  she  used  to  laugh 
and  say:  'Madame,  I  am  a  better  woman  than  I 
was  this  morning.  How  long  will  it  be  before  I 
am  a  good  woman  like  you?'  This  war  proves 
one  thing:  that  no  matter  how  bad  people  have 
been  there's  hope  for  them." 

"Do  you  really  believe  that?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"But  there's  no  undoing  what  we've  done. 
Take  me,  for  instance." 

"We  can't  undo  what  we've  done,  of  course," 
said  Dorothy,  and  she  laughed. 

"But  if  you  like  I  will  take  you — fcr  instance: 
compared  to  what  you've  done  since  the  war  be- 

325 


His  Daughter 

gan  everything  else  seems  to  me  so  little  and 
insignificant  that  so_  far  as  I'm  concerned  it  sim- 
ply doesn't  exist.  ...  So  far  as  I'm  concerned 
the  past  is  simply  dead  and  buried;  and  that  is 
not  an  act  of  will-power,  it's  just  a  fact.  .  .  .  I'm 
not  afraid  of  the  future  .  .  .  not  one  little  bit." 

He  slid  an  arm  around  her  and  laid  his  cheek 
against  hers. 

"There's  nothing  much  that  I  can  say,"  he  said. 
"Fve  been  bad  and  I'm  trying  to  be  good.  .  .  . 
-Since  Ellen  died  I  have  done  nothing,  thought 
nothing,  that  could  ever  hurt  you.  .  .  .  And  so 
it  sort  of  looks  as  if  there  was  some  good  in  me. 
.  .  .  And  this  time,  dear,  I  won't  go  weather- 
vaning  with  every  pretty  breeze  that  blows.  .  .  . 
I'll  stick.  I  know  I'll  stick!" 

They  kissed  each  other  lovingly. 

"Promise  you'll  be  very  careful  and  not  take 
unnecessary  risks." 

"Sure,"  said  Dayton. 

The  next  day  there  existed  for  him  nothing  but 
the  enemy  against  whose  wits  he  had  matched  his 
wits  and  against  whose  life  he  had  staked  his  own. 

"I  got  him  finally,"  he  wrote  to  his  wife,  "but 
he  fell  inside  his  own  lines  and  so  didn't  count." 


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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRARYFAOUTY 


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